


Lift It Like It's Heavy

by blueraspberrybubblegum



Series: Lift It Like It's Heavy [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Ashen Romance | Auspistice, Blindness, Body Horror, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Death, Depression, F/F, F/M, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Gore, M/M, Oral Sex, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Post-Sburb, Pregnancy, Rough Sex, Self-Harm, Sloppy Makeouts, sinking ships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:19:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 108,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueraspberrybubblegum/pseuds/blueraspberrybubblegum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warmth steals up your arms and crawls into your heart. Warmth pushes its foggy fingers into your head. Blue light ripples across the person-shaped husk beneath you, as Aradia’s voice says “Better if she didn’t know what hit her,” only the word <em>hit</em> rings echoes off the walls of the cavern, and a wisp of smoke leaks out of the barrel of the pistol leveled at your head.<br/></p><div class="center">
  <p>* * *</p>
</div><br/>This is the sad/happy/sexy/epic story of thirteen teenagers against the world. (With bonus tracks.)
            </blockquote>





	1. Be John Egbert.

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who are new to the H.M.S. John/Roxy: Welcome! We're so glad you're here! Please, make yourselves comfortable. Our ship is your ship. <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Added gorgeous (spoiler-y) fanart by [banishedquasiroyal](https://banishedquasiroyal.tumblr.com/) to the end of [Chapter 16](http://archiveofourown.org/works/686370/chapters/14282098). <3
> 
> Edit 2: Fixed fanart link.

This is not the kind of thing you can be ready for.

You fall in love. You build a home. You surround yourself with the people you love and work to make the world a better place for them. Before you know it you’re all grown up, even though you’re only sixteen.

And then one day you’re at ground zero and the impact blows your reality wide open.

Your name is John Egbert, and you’re going to be a father.

* * *

It all started with a haircut.

You were sweltering in the late summer heat, putting up walls with Dave and Gamzee under Karkat’s supervision.

Terezi was helping. Terezi always wants to help. She loves to help. Today Terezi helped by driving the construction mech into the hole where the basement’s supposed to go.

Dirk had his hands full with repairs. Karkat had his hands full with breaking to his matesprit, in the nicest possible way, that her shit would turn to diamonds before she was ever allowed within sniffing distance of heavy machinery again. Terezi had her hands full with explaining to Karkat exactly where he could put his heavy machinery and how many new nooks it would rip when it got there.

Which left only you, your best bro, and your – and Gamzee to put up the walls. And let’s face it: Dave is not a dude who does much heavy lifting. He’s a work smarter kind of guy.

Needless to say, it was going kind of slow.

Even with counterweighted pulleys the labor was backbreaking, because, at Rose’s suggestion, you’re building to last: each massive timber frame will eventually support stone walls nearly a foot thick. It would have been easier with Jade’s help, but she was at the quarry with Kanaya, chipping away at the problem of stonemasonry.

Three of you were frying in the sun (only three, because trolls don’t burn, the lucky bastards; besides, Terezi huffed off to be “helpful” elsewhere, presumably while continuing to lambaste Karkat at the top of her lungs.) When Roxy announced dinner on her last trip to the top of the hill, you and your friends abandoned the worksite with speed borne of a well-earned appetite. You retired to the sun room to wind down after putting up your dishes and helping Jane straighten up the kitchen.

* * *

The blinds are down, cutting the glare of the setting sun without blocking the evening breeze. Sometimes you need to move the air yourself, but today the weather is being pleasantly cooperative.

You’re sprawled in an armchair chatting with Karkat about tomorrow’s work – Karkat, the world’s surliest foreman, but surprisingly good at managing construction projects; trolls learn the ins and outs of building at an early age. Somehow the conversation has gotten around to Roxy and her refreshment deliveries.

“The grog-gargling bitch is doing it on purpose,” spits Karkat.

“Even if your anger is justified, which I am not convinced of, there is no reason to be uncivil,” Kanaya inserts, turning the page of the massive medical tome on her lap with a black-lacquered claw. She must have picked up a lot of her girlfriend’s bad habits; it takes an obstinately dedicated mind to read a textbook cover to cover. Rose never was the same after she finished the dictionary, bless her heart.

You butt in before Karkat can get sidetracked. “You’re being paranoid! She’s just making rounds. If you were working on the south side of the house she’d come to you first.”

“Bullshit. I was on the south end last week.”

You roll your eyes. “Last week Roxy was working on the pond, remember? She was coming from the other direction.”

“Whatever. I am just fucking _over_ being served last every single day.”

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about! Water is water. What do you want, beer?”

“I’d be happy to oblige.” Roxy, in a pink and black plaid skirt that looks like it started life as half of a cheerleader’s uniform, makes her entrance with a pitcher of amber-colored ale. She plucks Karkat’s glass from his claws. “But you know you’ll get sunstroke if you don’t stay hydrated.”

“All I want is water that is not the same fucking temperature as the sun. It’s like drinking warm piss.”

“Gross, dude,” you tell him.

“Fine, it’s settled. Tomorrow I’ll bring the water to you second.” She returns his glass to him, bending to brush his mop of hair with an affectionate “Muah!”

“Second?” Karkat echoes, sounding a little off balance. It always catches him by surprise that pretty much everyone finds him completely adorable, even when he goes out of his way to be an ass. The guy thinks a little bit of yelling will cover up the fact that he wears his heart on his face.

“John gets water first, of course.” Roxy winks at you where Karkat can’t see. You relinquish your glass with a conspiratorial grin. “Dave, d’you want any more? Your first one’s getting warm.”

“Only if you doped it.” He’s muffled by a face full of cushion.

Jade _tsks_ sympathetically. She is perched on top of Dave, massaging aloe into his raw shoulders. “I wish you’d wear a black shirt when it’s so sunny out.”

“Shit no. It’s hot enough as it is.”

“I just don’t understand how you can still get barbecued under three layers of sunscreen!”

“Maybe you missed a spot.”

“Bite your tongue, you ungrateful beast!” She slaps his back open-handed. It leaves a neat white handprint.

Dave rolls over, depositing Jade on the floor with a thump. He pulls off his glasses and fixes her with a serious look. “How bad is it?”

Her hands flit to cover her mouth. “Oh, sweetie.”

“Aw. Fuck.” There is a moment of silence for Dave’s face. The shades protected the skin around his eyes, but his forehead and cheekbones are blistered crimson to match his fire-engine irises. You’re glad Terezi’s still off sulking; she would probably try to lick him if she were in the vicinity.

“Why don’t you just wear a hat?” you ask.

“Hell no. I’d look like a douche.”

“Dirk wears hats all the time.”

“That’s what I just said, weren’t you listening?”

“You’re the douche, you buttmunch. You can borrow my floppy gardening hat if you don’t want to wear one of Dirk’s,” offers Roxy.

“You mean _my_ floppy gardening hat,” Jade says.

“It doesn’t matter whose hat it is, because I’m not wearing it.”

“Where’s Rose when I need her?” Jade asks the ceiling.

“No need to call Rose. I can tell you what she would say.” Kanaya clears her throat and adopts a condescendingly pedagogical tone. “Why do you think you avoid headwear, Dave? Do ball caps bring up painful memories of your deceased guardian? Are you deliberately attempting to distance yourself from your brother Dirk? Will a hat detract from the ‘too cool for school’ image you project? Are you worried about hat hair? _Are you worried about hat hair, Dave?_ ”

Before he can spit out his ready retort, there’s a slow clap from the doorway. Rose, straightening, extends an open palm. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the flatteringly beautiful, relentlessly honest, Kanaya Maryam.” Kanaya hops up for a curtsy. Her reading material slides off her lap and embeds itself deep in the crook between two misshapen cushions. Rose greets her with a peck and a smile before turning on her brother, who clearly thought he was off the hook.

“But seriously, Dave, just because you’re immortal doesn’t mean you can’t get skin cancer. Spending half of your eternity with carcinoma eating your face is an eventuality that becomes more probable every time you let yourself burn. So be the smart one, please, and wear a goddamn hat.”

“No.”

“Why not.”

Dave pinches the bridge of his nose. He looks like he’s getting a headache. “They cut off my peripheral vision,” he answers at last. This admission skips across the surface of a much bigger issue: Dave’s eyesight. The sun that bakes this new world has not been kind to him the last few months.

Jade exchanges glances with Rose, who won’t press the issue any farther today; she’s said her piece. Jade, on the other hand, will worry at a problem until it’s small and soggy enough to swallow – she gets this determined expression that makes her look like she has an underbite. Standing, she kisses Dave’s nose and replaces his glasses, ignoring his stifled grimace. The concerned look vanishes from her face as she crosses the room to kneel in front of Karkat.

Jade draws her hair over her shoulder and starts combing through it.

“Karkat...”

The transformation is incredible, as always. Her voice is pitched an octave higher than usual and yet it sounds so soft and musical you have to strain to hear it. You can’t see her eyes, but you imagine them glittering with fervor and fat crocodile tears through lowered lashes. Karkat throws down his eyebrows like shields, as though he has any chance of resisting whatever favor Jade is about to ask.

“Kar, there’s a teensy problem.”

“I doubt it.”

“Kar…” She picks up his hand and strokes it gently. He doesn’t pull away; that’s how you know he’s already lost.

“What the fuck do you want,” he growls.

“It’s taking forever long to cut the stone blocks… Do you think you could spare someone to help out at the quarry tomorrow? That way I can focus on moving the finished loads up to the house, and Kanaya can get back to her studying.”

Karkat grumbles. “The chainsaw’s not working out?”

“You can’t cut granite with a chainsaw! She told you that!”

“You owe me a new chain, Karkat,” says Kanaya.

His sigh easily covers two girls’ worth of vexation, plus interest. “I’m sure you have some poor fool in mind.”

“Well… yes.” She’s tracing little flowers on his palm with one lime-polished finger. Not that you can see much from your seat; it’s just that Jade always doodles flowers or frogs or Squiddles, and whatever she’s working on looks loopy.

“Let me ask you something.”

“Mm?” Jade tilts her head but doesn’t look up from her pretend art project.

“What makes you think Dave will be any more help than anyone else? Say, Gamzee?”

“Gamzee would be a great help!” she exclaims, grinning.

“I don’t understand.”

“…But then you’ll have to listen to Dave’s bitching as he burns down to a pile of sad human cinders. Wouldn’t it be nicer to keep your moirail beside you and send Dave away where he can be helpful?”

Karkat turns to you with wide eyes and a destitute expression. “Logic _and_ emotion? How am I supposed to fight this bullshit?”

“Don’t,” you advise, cracking up.

He waves his hands in surrender, each digit crowned with a wicked yellow nail. “Alright, fine.” Jade squeals and throws her arms around him, smacking a wet kiss on his cheek. You can see the heat rising in his face. The other trolls blush their Jolly Rancher candy colors, but they just look more alien when they do; when Karkat blushes, you almost forget he’s not human.

“You’re a wonder, girl. Come here.” Jade dives into Dave’s lap, knocking him over just as he finishes righting himself. He’s too busy macking on her to complain. Karkat shakes off her spell like a dog shakes off the rain, the red fading from his cheeks by Etch-a-Sketch magic.

“Oh, Karkat, that reminds me! I need John’s help in the garden tomorrow to… uh…” Roxy waves the beer pitcher haphazardly, pretending to search for a suitable excuse.

“Go fuck yourself with a digging blade.”

“Trowel, Kar! It’s called a trowel,” you supply over Roxy’s giggling fit.

“You too, Egbert. And if I meant trowel, I would have said trowel.”

She leans down to peck your forehead, still laughing. A couple of ash-blonde strands marooned in her lip gloss are deftly tucked away behind an ear. “If no one else needs anything, I have a date with Jane and a pair of scissors.”

“Nooooooooo!” Wow, you sound like a six year old.

“What’s wrong?”

“I like your hair long,” you pout, reaching across her shoulder. You won’t let go until she swears to drop the scissors down a well and never speak to Jane again. Your girlfriend’s stuck awkwardly bent over by your death grip on her pony tail.

Instead of pulling away, she catches your wrist in her free hand and draws herself forward to straddle your lap. She’s always making such a big deal about your badass man muscles that it’s easy to forget how strong she is herself. Not as strong as you, but still, she could best any of the girls in a fistfight. Half the boys, too, probably.

“Do you, now?” Like Jade, Roxy can do something miraculous with her voice, a magic power only granted to females. Her mouth floats in front of your eyes, mesmerizing, filling your brainspace with the scent of strawberry lip gloss. She brings your hand to her lips and kisses your fingertips one by one. Wasn’t that hand supposed to be protecting her golden head from the knife?

“What would you do if I promised to grow it out?” She takes the last joint of your pointer finger in her mouth and pauses. Her pursed lips are the same color as her eyes.

Waterfalls of platinum hair fill your mind and wash out any sensible thought in a rush of loose curls. She’s already so gorgeous – the thought of her even-more-sexier breaks your brain a bit. The parts that still work are gushing about how girls in general, and girlfriends in particular, and yours most especially, are pretty much the best.

“Anything,” you breathe.

Roxy kisses you, slow and deep and with plenty of tongue, and whoops there goes your dignity. The beer pitcher’s dripping condensate into your hair. You forget, entirely, what these useless lumps on the ends of your arms are for; the only task they’re capable of at the moment is keeping you from floating away.

“Girl’s choice tonight. Take a shower,” she whispers, lips almost touching your earlobe. She pulls away. You very nearly follow.

“Where are you going?”

“I already said. I’m supposed to give Jane a haircut.”

The awe in the room is silent but tangible. You went all in without even glancing at your cards and Roxy waltzed away with the whole pot. You feel like Maverick, lounging in his bathtub, totally okay with being robbed blind by sexy western Jodie Foster. It’s a full minute after Roxy leaves that you come to your senses, close your hanging jaw, and cover your embarrassment with a pillow.

Your lap, that is. Your red cheeks just need to air out for a minute.

“John Egbert,” Jade says, “your girlfriend is the hottest fucking thing on the planet.” Rose’s eyes are rolling so hard they’re in danger of becoming dislodged. The expression seems un-Roselike to you, but then again, she’s still new to the sister thing – it must be especially strange to get used to the idea that her mom was a teenager once too. Meanwhile, Karkat appears to be taking mental notes.

It’s your four month anniversary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for Lift It Like It's Heavy: ["A Spoonful Weighs a Ton" - The Flaming Lips](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mVsyJtCsqeA)


	2. Be Jane Crocker.

It’s long past time you had a haircut; your coiffure is almost as wild as John’s. If Roxy can manage, you think you might like a pixie cut, shorter than it’s ever been. Your hair’s so thick that it starts to swallow your head when you let it grow out, especially when the humidity is high. It’s too stubborn to hold a proper curl, but too wavy to wear long. You gave up trying to style it a while back.

Haircuts always put you in a good mood. There’s something about reinventing yourself and starting over fresh and new and clean that makes you feel giddy. It’s an opportunity to put the past behind. It’s a ritual that marks transitions – the beginning of a new school year, yes, but also weddings and vacations and confirmation, and a hundred other little experiences that change the way you think about things. It’s a second chance at a first impression, a rare opportunity to surprise yourself when you look in the mirror.

You invited Dirk and Jake over to help the time pass. Of course, Jake brought a movie: Watchmen, a dark action film about people who dress up like super heroes. Dr. Manhattan is a bizarre sort of bridge between everybody’s romantic interests, being a buff naked blue guy (Jake’s blue beauties will never stop being funny, but he really doesn’t mind being the butt of a joke). Nevertheless, you secretly prefer the unassuming Nite Owl for his honorable intentions, uncompromising pursuit of the truth, and adorable dimples (oh my!)

Roxy shows up about the time the popcorn is done, wielding a pair of scissors you swear belong in Rose’s knitting basket. “What’ll it be, darling?” she asks, without any trace of a slur. She must have decided to be good tonight; no one wants to rehash the last drunken haircut debacle. Who would have thought the ear could bleed so much from one tiny little nick? Jake compared the ensuing fountain to a toddler peeing off the top of a slide, from which you deduced that he must enjoy America’s Funniest Home Videos reruns on top of his famously, promiscuously indiscriminant movie collection.

The four of you are sitting on cushions on the floor: Roxy kneeling behind you, blades at the ready, with a comb and spray bottle in easy reach; Jake propped against the foot of the couch; Dirk reclining between his legs. Roxy has lined her mini hair clips along the margin of Dirk’s sleeve, pink, purple, blue, green, polka dot, and glitter varieties of the above.

These are your best friends. Roxy, whose saucy tongue and free spirit makes her the natural center of attention; Dirk, built like a pikey bare-knuckle boxing champion, who practices sword forms in his sleep and doesn’t say a word that doesn’t need to be said; and Jake… sweet, dense, oblivious Jake, tall and lanky like John but with stunning emerald eyes, a knockout smile, and a youthful ignorance of fashion.

John is good-looking too, but he reminds you of your dad. Plus he’s sort of your grandfather.

(Roxy, who was always quite taken with your dad, sees John’s resemblance as a huge plus. Go figure.)

He’s your friend too, of course, but because he’s family, the two of you are close in ways that aren’t directly related to how well you get along. When you played the game, you lost your dad, Calliope, and Earth – but you gained John.

Most days it almost feels like a fair trade. He’s the brother you never had.

The boys are hogging the popcorn and bickering over the movie like the married couple cliché they are. Dirk’s on the offensive, digging for complements, but tonight Jake is playing it coy. You’re staying out of it for purposes related to self-preservation.

“I’m not saying I don’t like muscles on a man! You’re taking it all out of context.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘There’s more to life than having sex with incredibly built dudes.’”

“I wasn’t talking about you, dunderhead. I was specifically referring to Silk Spectre leaving Dr. Manhattan for Nite Owl.”

“Now you don’t even think I’m cut. Thanks a lot, Jake. Next you’re going to tell me you’re only dating me so I won’t go nuclear and blow up the planet.”

“Hold it right there for a dang blasted minute! That’s not what I meant and you know it!” Jake squirms around to try to look his boyfriend in the face, but Dirk’s not cooperating. Jake gets a shoulder instead.

“What did you mean? You’d prefer me to be a chubby, middle-aged loser who can’t even get it up when there’s a hot chick all over him?” Dirk’s blunt appraisal of Nite Owl is shamefully accurate, if one-sided.

“Can _you_ get it up when a hot chick’s all over you?” Roxy interrupted. “I’m just curious.”

“Roxy, that is _none of your business_.” His pointer finger jabs at her upper arm, momentarily rocking her sideways. You wish he wouldn’t distract her when she’s got the shears so close to your face.

“In the spirit of scientific discovery,” Roxy snickers between little snips, “I propose that we design an experiment.” Roxy’s relationship with John has had zero impact on the way she talks to Dirk. It makes you wonder if the crush she nursed for so long was always just a joke between the two of them… or if, even now, she’s holding out hope that he’ll come straight. You hope it’s the former, because you’ll be obligated to string her up if she runs around on John. Bffsy or not.

Jake to the rescue: “Roxy, I can’t let you lay your wiles on Dirk even if he is being a drama queen.”

“Watch who you’re calling names, asshole.” Dirk folds his arms, face unreadable under his ridiculous shades, but Roxy and Jake are plowing forward without him. This is the closest he comes to pouting.

“I plumb changed my mind, Rox. You can have him. He’s too high maintenance for a simple fella like me.” Dirk reaches back and pinches Jake right in the side – jeez, he’s handsy today. Jake swats him away.

“Too late! I already have a hot date tonight.” Your imagination fills in Roxy’s wiggling eyebrows and playful smirk. She flaunts John constantly, as if he’s the proof that she is happy and successful at life. It would be annoying if they weren’t so dang precious with each other. Besides, she’s been unlucky in love for so long that you don’t begrudge her a little celebration.

“I should have known a classy dame such as yourself would have suitors lined up out the door.”

Roxy leans forward with a conspiratorial stage whisper. “Listen, forget about me. I know this darling girl who would love to be shown a good time. She’s gorgeous, too, or anyway she will be as soon as I finish evening out her fringe.”

“I know just the lass you mean. She’s a gentle soul who doesn’t deserve to be consigned to the company of a crass man like Strider.” At this, Dirk stands up abruptly, brushing imaginary dirt off his leather gloves.

“Come find me when you’re done being a jackass,” he tells Jake, and swoops down to peck you on the head, jerking back before Roxy can impale him. “Your hair looks great, Jane.” You blush and Roxy preens. Eking a compliment from Dirk is like trying to squeeze the juice from a handful of raisins.

“’Night, Dirk,” you tell his back.

“Why don’t you take her out yourself?” Roxy says once Dirk’s out of range. She puts down the scissors. “There. Let’s find a mirror.”

Your heart is in your throat. She’s joking, of course, but she should know better than to bat your feelings around like a ball of yarn just to see you unravel. She’s well aware of how you feel about Jake.

“You know what? I think I will. Madame,” Jake says, offering you a hand up. You take his arm, mostly to hide your embarrassment. Why does he have to be so stupidly _nice_?

In front of the mirror, Roxy has you muss your hair and smooth it down a few times while she takes care of stray ends. It’s mostly flat and straight except at the nape of your neck, on your forehead, and where it curls around your ear. There’s a touch of a cowlick that can’t be helped, but she thinks it’s charming. Jake stands out of the way, looking bemused, until Roxy calls on him to pass judgment.

He pronounces it “Just right.”

“Just right my butt. She looks fantastic. Jake, tell her she looks fantastic.”

“Never have I seen such a fetching young woman,” he says grandly. Roxy rolls her eyes. He rocks on his toes for a moment, thinking while he smiles at your reflection. “How do you fancy a stroll in the moonlight, dear Jane?”

“Why… that would be...”

“Please say you will, Janey, I am in dire need of your company this evening.”

“…Wonderful! That would be wonderful.” Oh god, what are you doing? Your face feels like it’s melting.

“I’ll leave her in your capable hands,” Roxy says, already packing up her supplies, cursing Dirk for running off with her clippies. She dances out the door but sticks her head back around the corner a second later. “Whatever you do, _stay inside the wall_.”

“Of course!” you and Jake answer together.

“Be good, you two!”

Behind you, forgotten on the television set, a crystal palace rises out of the red sands of Mars.

* * *

The door wants to swing shut behind you, so you prop it with one of your more modestly-sized battlespoons to keep it from latching. The moons, a matched pair of small white satellites and one big red one, swing around the planet in lockstep so no more than two are visible at once; tonight it’s the white, one full and the other waning gibbous, so the night seems nearly as bright and safe as daytime. Red nights are scarier, but Jake assures you they’re not actually more dangerous.

The two of you wander, arm in arm, around the edge of the frog pond and through Kanaya’s topiary project to the wooden swing at the top of the orchard. You’re content just to be on Jake’s radar for an hour, but it’s obvious he’s got something on his mind. When you climb onto the swing, you curl your knees beside you, forcing Jake to prop you up from the other side. He wraps one arm around you to keep you from sliding off the seat and idly kicks the swing into motion.

“How have you been, Janey?”

You fiddle with your socks. “Fine. Staying busy.” Keeping a dozen people fed is a full-time job in itself, but on top of everything, Rose keeps bringing you nutrition textbooks to study. It’s kind of fun trying to come up with meals that everyone wants to eat, but you’re supposed to make sure they’re balanced, too. Saturday is your vacation: Karkat makes pancakes for breakfast, and the week’s leftovers are first come, first served. You spend your Saturdays planning, writing the week’s menu, taking inventory, and making lists. Sunday you’re slaving over the stove; the biggest meal of the week is Sunday dinner. Monday and Thursday are for baking. Gamzee helps when he can, but he’s needed at the construction site most days.

“You’re doing a great job. That lasagna on Tuesday was a real treat.” You demur, blushing. Luckily for you, Jake has a tendency to overlook things he doesn’t understand – like why in the world you’d be embarrassed when he compliments your cooking. You already know you’re a good cook, damn it.

“I mean it! You’re putting your back into it and it shows. I hope you know how much we appreciate you.”

“Thanks, Jake.” You can see him beaming at you out of the corner of your eye. It’s hard not to smile back. “How about you? How are you doing?”

“Well, as for that, it’s hard to say.” Here it comes. “I feel a little… smothered, lately. Dirk demands attention all the time. It’s like being saddled with a kid. He lays on the guilt if I’m out hunting for more than half the day, and throws a tantrum when I want to spend time with anyone else. I don’t have the wherewithal to tell him to lay off.”

“Sounds like he needs to loosen up.” Why oh why did you agree to come out here? Because you’re a sucker, that’s why.

“He’s so friggin paranoid and mistrustful that he keeps tightening his grip. Shucks, a little bit of jealousy is all fine and dandy. Flattering, even. But lately he’s been downright clingy, and the worse he gets, the less time I want to spend with him.”

“Is he going to be mad at you for being out here with me?”

“Sure as shooting. We’ll tussle about it, and maybe there will be make-up sex.” He sighs. “And tomorrow we’ll cover the same ground all over again.”

You grunt. You _really_ don’t want to hear about make-up sex. “Why don’t you just break up with him?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I think that maybe if I was a better boyfriend he wouldn’t be so displeased with me. And it’s really not all bad. He’s always game for a scrap, which is a much more pleasant way to work things out than all the yelling and recriminations. And the sex… Jane, the sex is incredible. I’d have to be off my rocker to turn down intercourse of this caliber if we weren’t squabbling all the time.”

Your eyes roll up to the sky and pause there for a minute while you count to ten. You can’t say what you want to say, but you can’t say what he needs to hear, either. So you take a third path.

“Sounds positively caliginous.”

Jake barks a laugh and scrubs his fingers through his hair. “It does, doesn’t it? Maybe that’s all it is. The trolls are rubbing off on us.”

“Do you ever… get hurt?” You keep your eyes trained on the stars so he can’t see how much weight this question holds for you, which feels like overkill. Would he notice your concern even if you looked him dead in the eye? For all his credulity, Jake is the most literal-minded person you know. You’d have to spell it out if you wanted him to know how you really feel.

“The words hurt more than the bruises. And he’s a very considerate lover, even when he’s cross.” He shrugs. “I guess I’d be more apprehensive if I did call it quits. Holy smokes, could you imagine? I’d be safer out _there_.” He flings out his hand in the direction of the wall that keeps the wild things out at night.

As if in answer, a lupine howl is taken up in three different directions. Jake squeezes your shoulder comfortingly. “It’s just the sand wolf pack. They have a den over the river bank. Nothing to worry your noggin over.” He laughs, a sound you’ve always loved to hear, though tonight it seems a cruel joke. “They actually help keep the bigger predators at bay."

You take a deep breath and try to relax the tension in your shoulders. Your hands ache from the need to reach out to Jake, though you’re not sure what they would do if you let them go. Comfort him? Strangle him?

Lately, when you fantasize about Jake, it always seems to involve a gag. You wonder why.

It’s time to look him in the eye. “Jake, I want you to promise me that you’ll leave him if it gets bad. We’re all family here, and no one wants to see you get hurt. And…” Here’s the hard part, the root of the reason you agreed to come out here and listen to him rant – because if you can’t have Jake as a lover, you’ll take him any way he’ll come to you. “I’m here if you need me. You can talk to me any time.”

“Gosh, darlin.” Jake blinks his bright green eyes and brushes your cheek with one thumb, which sets off a chain reaction, a tingling sensation that spreads across your body in concentric circles. “That hairdo really suits you. Roxy did a good job.” He flashes you a smile. “I promise, Janey, I’ll come to you if things ever start going south with Dirk.” Your own smile feels sick. The idiot doesn’t even realize he’s feeding the flame.

One of these days someone’s going to get burned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for Jane: ["Australia" - The Shins](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pLtX-Dmd0b0)


	3. John: Give her what she wants.

Once you finish off the beer, it’s time to get ready for your big night. Your friends’ laughing catcalls follow you down the hall to your bedroom, but the only advice that you feel comfortable taking is Jade’s: “Give her what she wants.”

The first thing you do is take a quick, cold shower, rinsing off the grime and sweat of the day and getting your mind off of Roxy long enough to clean up. You do a whirlwind pick-up job in your room; if you can’t remember where it’s supposed to be, it goes in the closet, and god have mercy on the next person to open the closet door; maybe you can figure out how to make sure it’s Karkat. You open the window to let in the night sounds, shake out the rugs, and cheat a little to blow the dust and dirt into a corner where you can sweep it up faster. The Ghostbusters-themed sheets are the only clean set you can find, but it’s too late to do laundry, so you make the bed neatly and hope she doesn’t notice.

How long does it take to cut a girl’s hair? You guess you still have about an hour, plenty of time for a real shower and maybe spot-cleaning the bathroom. You look at yourself in the mirror as the shower warms up, wondering if this is what you look like all the time, or if there’s a mirror face that you put on without thinking about it. You try to catch yourself off guard from the corner of your eye, but it’s hard, even before the glass starts to fog up.

 You salvaged enough of the portable nuclear-powered hubs to take care of daily comfort things, like hot running water, and lights, and a working refrigerator, but luxuries like air conditioning will have to wait until you move into the big house – right now, twelve of you are crammed into this glorified chicken coop with its wooden everything, held together by rusty nails and well-worn camaraderie. It’s just like summer camp, the kind with sports and arts and crafts instead of tents and campfires, but in place of camp counselors you have a pretty little doll of a teacher’s pet and a vocally disgruntled delinquent to keep you in line.

You lather up, wash your hair, and scrub your face, careful not to swallow the tap water – it’s pumped up from the river – then open the little window to clear out the steam while you brush your teeth. You rinse from a navy and white pitcher of well water. It was a gift from Rose that she rescued from a display case in her old house, along with its plaque, which read: “Ewer. Clay and blue glaze. 2004. Rose Lalonde, age 8.” She scoffed when you told her that you couldn’t accept such a priceless relic.

Shaving is still not an every day thing for you, but today, at least, you can smooth out the stubble and make yourself presentable. You can’t decide if the glasses should stay on or come off. Eventually you leave them on; either way you’ll look like a fool, but at least you won’t trip over your own feet. Your mind is alight with what ifs. Should you try to say sexy things, or just keep your mouth shut and go with the moment? Aren’t you supposed to light candles or something? What’s she going to be wearing? What if you have sex and it’s terrible? Does she know you’re crazy about her? Is she going to think you’re weird for owning Ghostbusters sheets? Suddenly your hot date is starting to feel less sexy and more like facing the firing squad. Butterflies are threatening to make off with your entire g.i. tract, starting with your tongue.

You pull open the bathroom door, wondering what in the world you’re supposed to wear, and like a shotgun blast, she is already here: leaning on your tall bed, back against the down comforter, wearing a pale grey dress that bares her shoulders and barely clears her butt. Her capri-length tights are black, knit in an open pattern of ornate diamonds that doesn’t hide her legs. Her feet are bare except for a little silver toe ring. A distinguished-looking bottle of whiskey hangs precariously from one hand.

She’s holding her head at an angle, watching your eyes consume her with a knowing little smile. Tonight she’s foregone the eye shadow and mascara, keeping it simple: rose-colored eyes outlined in soft grey, face and shoulders dusted with something that shimmers when it catches the moonlight. It’s incredibly flattering, imbuing her skin with a supernatural glow to match the halo of pale hair curling softly off her shoulders. Breathing hurts a little bit; the shotgun metaphor is appropriate here, you think, because your chest is burning like it’s full of rock salt.

You are frozen in place as she approaches, wetting her lips with the liquor. She stands on her tiptoes to pull you down for a kiss: lip gloss and bourbon. Your toes curl into the rug. She’s a tricky girl; she hands you the bottle, and as you raise it to your lips she loosens the towel from your unguarded waist. You grope for it one-handed, but it’s a lost cause, so you bend down and scoop her up instead, her thighs pressed against your forearm and her laughter in your ear. You manage to get her onto the bed before she can wrestle the bottle back out of your hand, and practically throw yourself down next to her, making two body-shaped impressions in the clean white comforter.

Roxy wants you to lie down flat while she reclines next to you, propped up on an elbow. The honey-colored liquor goes into a scotch glass, the kind with short sides and a heavy bottom that would take a bit of effort to tip over – she’s obviously put some thought into this. She touches her fingertips to the mirrored liquid and paints your mouth, tracing the pad of her thumb across your lips. The act is tender and intimate. She pauses for a moment to tuck her hair behind her ear, studying your face with the edge of her lip trapped between her teeth. You’re glad you didn’t light any candles, because the silver light falling through the curtains transforms her face into a glowing moon, bright and beautiful and ageless.

She won’t let you lick the whiskey off your lips; that’s her job, and she performs passionately, following each fragrant fingerprint down your neck to your shoulder. Her fingers blaze a trail to your chest, worrying at your nipple until it gets hard before attacking it with her tongue. Her touch awakens an urgency in your middle that’s hard to ignore. Meanwhile, as her mouth is occupied with the upper part of your chest, she’s drawing wet circles, low on your belly, that take a tangent across your hip bone and wander down your thigh. The cooling sensation of alcohol evaporating from your groin raises goosebumps. She’s instructed you not to move; you make fists in the comforter and fight to breathe normally, wondering if anyone’s ever died of anticipation. You want more of her than these teasing kisses; you want to cover her while she clings to you. The thought makes you almost unbearably aroused.

You can feel her breath on your erection when she finally brushes the tip, mixing the liquor with your pre-cum and sending an electric shock through your limbs that makes you shudder. She dips her fingers over and over again, smearing your shaft with the burning liquid. When you’re not sure you can stand the sensation a moment longer, she licks you with the tip of her tongue before pulling your head into her mouth. Her hand slowly works the base as she advances inch by inch down the shaft, searching out every last drop of whiskey with her tongue, until she has as much as she can take. Her eyes meet yours and hold them in traction. She tightens her lips around you and pulls back, forcing you to stifle a groan of pleasure. Your thighs and stomach are cramping with the effort of holding back.

“Roxy – Roxy – “ you gasp out, pushing yourself up and pulling her forward, crushing your mouth against hers. Your hands hover an inch from her tangled head, unwilling to touch for fear of breaking her. “Let _me_ ,” you tell her flushed cheek, and she falls sideways, pulling you down on top of her.

She’s still got control of the whiskey, so the game becomes: John kisses where Roxy tells him to.

This is a fun game, not just because you get to undress her, but because you get to make her squirm. You follow her fingers up under her dress as far as you can go before you have to have her sit up so you can peel it off. The whiskey makes her wanton, dragging her hands across her body in slow, hard sweeps, directing your attention to her full breasts, her waist and thighs. Everywhere she touches tastes like summer twilight. She pulls off the tights between kisses, leaving only a pair of black panties trimmed in lace that lie low across her hips.

“Undress me,” she says, and you’re happy to comply, tugging the panties down her thighs as she lifts her hips. She dips two fingers into the glass, turning her wrist to submerge them to her knuckles, and reaches down to run them between her legs.

“Kiss me,” she whispers, wrapping her legs around you, and you follow the flavor of summer to her cherry. Her thighs jerk against your neck as you lick and nibble; she moans restlessly, provocatively, when you push a finger inside her. She’s so slick you add a second finger and rock your hand hard against her. You want her so bad it hurts, and she knows it, and she wants you too.

“Fuck me,” she gasps, and you move forward, sliding against her lower stomach, covering her mouth with yours. She reaches down to guide you in. Watching her carefully, you advance until you can’t anymore, your hips flush against the flesh of her inner thighs, and it’s a little terrifying because she’s so small you don’t know if you can move without hurting her, but amazingly she is pressing up to meet you and telling you “Yes, John, yes.” She feels so sweet around you, warm and wet. You pull out a little way and push back in, watching her head tip back, her mouth opening silently.

You start slow, which is enough at first; pretty soon it’s not. There’s a stutter, and another one, where you and Roxy can’t quite get your timing right, but it’s not the end of the world. The rhythm builds with every stroke. You slide in easily, and she feels tight around you, a perfect fit. Her nails score your shoulder blades hard enough to leave welts. Your breath hitches to feel her canting her hips and pulling her knees back for better penetration, because this is what she wants, what she wants, she wants. Your will stretches to the breaking point. She bites your neck, hard, right where it joins your shoulder, and you come, crying out, pumping Roxy while she arches back, her hands scrabbling at the bedspread.

Then the bottom falls out, and all you see are stars.

The details lose themselves in a hurricane of sensation; afterwards you can only recall discrete moments. The sound she made when she came. The stinging of the scrapes on your back. The smell of her as you caught your breath, feeling too weak to move ever again, and wondering why you’d want to. Everything you need is right here.

Later, when it gets too warm to cuddle, you disentangle yourselves. You wonder if you should have used protection.

* * *

Sex happens again the next morning, when you wake up and find Roxy still in your bed, and it’s hot because it’s spontaneous and rumpled and sticky and unkempt and totally worth missing breakfast for.

You steal kisses each time she brings water to the work site, which is something that happened before, but perhaps not as fervently. Nor with such blatant disregard for the proximity of your fellow laborers. She stubbornly sticks to her promise to bring Karkat his water right after you, but the boys revolt because it means she’s walking right past them without offering them a drink. Eventually, Karkat is forced to relent.

That night, when you’re getting ready for bed, Roxy slips into your room wearing a fuzzy white bathrobe and not much else. You take her against the door, futilely trying to muffle the noise for the sake of your neighbors. You start showering together. After the first week, she gives up all pretense of sleeping in her own bed.

One day Jade walks in on you in the common room. She bombards you with pillows, shouting in mixed tones of hilarity and outrage, until you can finish getting your pants on. You chase her out the side door, where she dumps half the frog pond on your head in a scathing torrent of displeasure. Dripping wet and squelching in your shoes, you carry her, squealing, to the side of the little pool, and toss her in the direction of the lily pads, where the water’s deepest. She retaliates by grinding a handful of sandy mud into your hair while Roxy cheers her on, leaning from the window.

Jade’s message is loud and clear: Get A Room. It’s true that she and Dave are more private than most of the other couples, but you’ve never heard her scolding any of them, not even the trolls, who could be doing anything, any time, anywhere. You’ve walked in on Dirk and Jake once or twice yourself. Though come to think of it... they’re usually just making out. Yeah, okay, maybe you were out of line. No sex in the common room is a reasonable enough rule to live by. You take the hint and turn down the heat a little, at least when you’re in shared spaces.

Once the wrinkles get worked out and you settle into your new routine, it’s hard to tell anything has changed. The only difference is the way they say your names: John-and-Roxy, all in one breath. It makes you feel whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week is a Karkat chapter! See you then!
> 
> Theme for Chapter 3: ["Love You Madly" - Cake](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2uwjsG0cRf0)


	4. Be Karkat Vantas.

This is not what you thought would happen when you walked through the door.

You thought you would be coming home to _home_ , to Alternia. You thought the table would be laid for the feast, a homecoming of heroes. You thought your lusus would meet you at the threshold. That everything once lost would be restored.

Then, when everything went to shit, you thought maybe you and the surviving trolls could find a way to get by on Earth. No lusus, no mother grub, no hope of reviving your race. Heartbroken and homesick. But still… still the respite of civilization. Taking comfort in the assurance that life would float on despite your unending chain of fuckups. You could put down your burden and just… live.

You thought the game would be over when you walked through the door.

Guess what, grublicker? The game is never, _ever_ fucking over.

This new planet is the most fresh and bloody of raw deals: the flora inedible, the surface water laden with toxins, the topsoil virtually nonexistent. The fauna not only hostile but so outrageously proportioned that many species see you as a novel form of prey; it’s like living on a planet populated by all of Alternia’s most bloodthirsty lusus, a primitive nightmare world. Even the ground is alive, bucking with rage at your insolent alien tread, smashing your first attempt at a hive before you could even get a roof in place.

After the catastrophe of the earthquake, it was easy to swallow your pride and ask Rose for help.

Rose led your party, five trolls and eight humans, on a harrowing journey into the mountains and out again on the other side, south, always south, away from the punishing sun and into the rain shadow to a land that was green and vibrant and veined with running water. You laid your foundation on rock-studded hills overlooking a sandy riverbed – Rose said the sand meant there was granite upstream, and Rose is never wrong. You wanted to kiss her, but thought better of it; Kanaya was standing right there, Kanaya who wears mildness like she wears the latest fashions, a superficial and transient film overlying her core self.

That was fifteen weeks ago. Since then, you’ve built a wall. The wall encloses a matchstick hive, just respiteblocks off of a long hallway with common rooms at either end – John calls it a “lodge.” The real hive, the permanent hive, is still under construction; the only room that’s close to being finished is the kitchen, which is already in use. Other than the construction site and the lodge, the grounds inside the wall house several gardens, a pond, and a stand of saplings that may someday bear fruit – Dave’s pet orchard. Most importantly, there’s room to expand, a concession to the hope, common to both species, that new life will bloom in this remote sanctuary.

So your days are filled with sunlight and work and the worry that comes with making plans, and your evenings are occupied in whatever ways take everyone’s minds off of tomorrow’s grind. Sometimes it’s just good food and good beer, and that’s enough; sometimes there’s a movie or a game. Sometimes you lock yourself in your room with Terezi and let the world pass by without you for a little while.

But tonight… tonight, by mutual agreement of the human branch of the Joint Council, is Open Mic Night.

Whatever the bulgebasting _fuck_ that is.

* * *

“Here’s how it works,” Dave said. “Everyone gets together and watches their friends go up on a stage one at a time to embarrass themselves in the most degrading way they can think of. Afterwards you can bond over how traumatizing it was.”

“Why would any spit-smeared fuckwit submit himself to such a horrifying experience?”

“Come on, Karkat. Even a pitiful excuse for entertainment like you has to be good at something. Haven’t you ever wanted to show off?”

You didn’t answer him. The only thing you’re good at is fucking things up, and you do that all the time. Kissing? You can’t kiss people in front of an audience, you bleeding asshole.

John offered to go first. Dave explained that this is appropriate, because John’s blithe willingness to make a fool of himself will help the poor tools who come after him feel less self-conscious on stage, a key component of a successful Open Mic Night. You said you’d have to take his word for it.

Not that John makes a fool of himself – he plays a song called “Rocket Man,” and what his singing voice lacks is made up in enthusiasm and a more than passing familiarity with the keyboard.

_Mars ain't the kind of place to raise your kids_  
 _In fact it's cold as hell_  
 _And there's no one there to raise them if you didn't_  
 _And all this science, I don't understand_  
 _It's just my job, five days a week_  
 _A rocket man, a rocket man_

_And I think it's gonna be a long long time_  
 _Till touch down brings me round again to find_  
 _I'm not the man they think I am at home_  
 _Oh no, no, no, I'm a rocket man_  
 _Rocket man burning out his fuse up here alone_

Even Terezi joins in on the chorus (“It’s troll Elton John!” she squeaks in your hear duct.) He stands up to relinquish the stage at the end of his turn and neatly avoids being bowled over by Roxy, using her momentum to whirl her in a tight circle.  The show of affection between John and his girlfriend – relentless, inescapable, and always free of charge - is as endearing as it is emetic.

Dirk follows up with a spoken-word masterpiece on the subject of the Condesce that somehow manages to rhyme “blitz” with “Batterwitch” and works in, at your final count, seven veiled slights against his brother. After he leaves the stage, Kanaya stands up to recite a poem composed entirely of tongue twisters, six minutes long, all from memory. The final stanza is performed all in a single breath, at a pace that has the room hooting and cheering before she’s even halfway done.

“At least _one_ of us made a showing tonight. Can’t let them have all the fun!” Terezi crows. She’s enjoying this human self-humiliation ritual way too much.

You have to admit, it’s not going as badly as Dave made it sound.

The next performance is a somber violin piece by Rose entitled “The Bubbles Burst,” which captures the tragedy of the last stand of the ghosts against Lord English. The message – a story of heroic sacrifice, injustice, and the inadequacy of gratitude – is communicated in poignant themes that soar and strangle themselves in turn. With your eyes closed, the music feels so close, so internalized, you can imagine the bow scraping across your own bare nerves. Terezi excuses herself to go have a good cry when it’s over.

Who should fill her empty seat, but Jade Harley?

Jade is nervous, chewing on the ends of her hair, and not in a sexy way either. After flashing you a quick smile as she sat down, her eyes have been fixed on Dave mixing his freestyle beats on the corner of the makeshift stage. You take pity on her and cover her clenched fist with your own hand.

“I had a dream last night,” she says under her breath.

“What kind of dream?” you ask in a neutral tone. Jade’s dreams, even after the death of her dream self, have never been the kind to take lightly – but since the ghosts died, the remaining bubbles are silent, nothing more than empty backdrops. These days everyone dreams alone. You wonder if you should pass her off to Rose or Terezi, someone more qualified to talk her through a difficult subject, but you decide against it. If Jade thought they could help her, she wouldn’t have come to you, would she?

She shakes her head, as if unsure how to answer your question, and then the dam bursts. “I was catching frogs in the moonlight, and I saw this cave, and of course you have to go into caves in your dreams, and inside was a room filled with candles and a stone slab and there was a woman in a golden dress and she said – “ Jade stops short with a swallow. “She said – “

“What did she say,” you growl impatiently, but Jade is looking down at your hand in surprise. Wonderingly, she lifts her fist to rub the back of your hand against her cheek. Dave’s beat picks up in tempo.

“It’s so smooth! Rich. Like,” she pauses, casting about for the right words. “A peach without the fuzz on. No.” She brings your hand to her lips, so she’s speaking into your knuckles. “Expensive stationary.” She inhales deeply, as though she can conjure the scent of paper from your skin by sheer effort. Her breath tickles. Is it the bass that’s beating so hard?

“What the fuck did she say, Jade.” It’s a low snarl. Terezi will be back any minute.

“She said you still had feelings for me.” Jade’s eyes, magnified by her glasses, cut sharply across to meet yours. Her fist drops back into her lap as you snatch your hand away.

“ _What_?” Everyone turns to look at you. You put on a show of apology so they can get back to enjoying the music. More quietly, but no less urgently: “Who was she? Have you ever seen her before?”

Jade tilts her head, filing away your reaction to analyze later. Girls are not made of sugar and spice, no matter what that starry-eyed idiot John says. Girls are made of bear traps.

“She was wearing a mask.”

“Shit in a fucking pail.” Jade makes a pained face. “Why are you telling me this garbage?”

“Is it true?”

You stutter, unable to maintain control of your own voice, which is probably just as good as a confession to someone like her. “The fuck does it matter if it’s true?”

“Maybe it doesn’t.” She looks back at her boyfriend. The song is winding up. “But there’s one more thing I wanted to tell you about the dream. The moon was red, Karkat.” Jade stands to clap and you follow, trying to anticipate the end of this train of thought.

“What in the name of the mother grub does that mean, ‘the moon was red’?”

“Think about it. Whoever she is, she’s here.” She steps forward to congratulate Dave, leaving you to stew in your frustrated bewilderment.

By the time Terezi returns, Gamzee’s in the middle of his juggling routine. He abandoned the facepaint after Lord English’s defeat, but still uses sopor; he says it keeps him steady. Anyone who’s seen him sober would have to agree.

“What did Jade want? I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“She wanted to know when we could put up a greenhouse.” As soon as the lie comes out of your flap, you wish you could stuff it back in and swallow it.

“Oh, did she? Is that why you’re so flustered?” She laughs cruelly at your blustering denial. “Please! I can smell you blushing from across the room.”

What’s there to say? You can’t think of anything truthful.

Terezi’s eyes narrow as you founder for a response, a habit of facial expression left over from when she could still see. Finally she snaps, “Don’t bother. I know a lie when I smell one.”

What are you trying to hide? It’s not like she can’t see right through you. The idea that you could distract Terezi with lies for even a second is laughable, and yet, the prospect of telling her the truth about Jade makes you sick to your stomach. There’s no good way to confess to your girlfriend that there’s someone else out there who ties you in knots.

It was a subtle thing, this crush, sneaking up on you at a time when all your attention should have been focused on your matespritship. You might never have figured out what was going on except that you found yourself entertaining caliginous thoughts about Dave, two full seasons after your jealousy over Terezi’s flushed history had faded. He’s not interested – you know that – so you took yourself apart over the course of a week, trying to trace the feeling to its source so you could quash it.

It came together one day, listening to Jade teach Dave about growing apple trees. You were surprised to overhear that they wouldn’t produce fruit for at least three sweeps. _Three fucking sweeps_. Why bother? Watching him pester her with questions ranging from ignorant to insightful, it dawned on you that Dave was ridiculously invested in this project, leagues beyond what you’d expect from someone who just really likes apples. He, _Dave_ , the man who was an island, couldn’t contain his genuinely unironic excitement. He had never seen an apple tree in his life, but he couldn’t wait to have an orchard of his own.

It was not just about the apples, you realized. The trees held significance deeper than simple food production. The orchard project was a kind of love letter from Jade to Dave, a commitment, a promise for the future. A red ribbon to tie them together so tightly they would never come apart again. As this revelation struck you, another followed on its heels: you wanted a love like this.

And Terezi wasn’t going to give it to you.

Of course she loves you, in her own inimitable way: she comes and goes as she pleases, offering affection when she feels like it, then disappearing for days to pursue other interests. She will not be pinned down or pigeonholed. She refuses to be defined by your relationship, even in the most glancing manner. When she’s around, when she wants something, you’re the center of her universe. She makes you feel stupidly happy for being able to make her laugh, to make her purr, to turn her on. And then, sometimes with no warning at all, she’s gone again – back to Gamzee, maybe, or into her roleplaying fantasies, a fortress of solitude where she can entertain herself perpetually without any help at all. Every time she leaves, she takes another piece of you with her. She’s impossible to second guess; the more you try to figure her out, the more unpredictable she becomes. It’s not fair. She knows you inside and out, but she’s still practically a stranger to you.

You’re in a bipolar relationship with a housecat.

What you found out that day, listening to Jade affectionately lecturing her matesprit about the importance of pruning, is that you might be more of a dog person after all.

It had been a sweep and a half since you thought about her that way, but it came back in a crashing wave: Jade the cheerful. Jade the patient. Jade the obstinate. Jade the fucking unstoppable force of nature. Jade, who did what no one else could do – reconcile you with yourself. Within the space of an hour, your schoolhive crush of six sweeps became your hopelessly unattainable obsession of seven and a half. And the fact that she knows – somehow, she knows – that is the thing that will destroy you.

Terezi startles you from your reverie by announcing, abruptly, that she’ll be spending the night with Gamzee. She lurches forward out of her seat to pick a fight with her kismesis, who’s trying to figure out how to dismount from his one wheel device. He tumbles off as she approaches and grins up at her from the ground.

“Hey there, sweet thing. Did you like my show?”

“What was that idiotic performace? Everyone else on the stage tonight had a _talent_ , Gamzee. Dropping crap isn’t a skill, it’s a disgrace.”

The smile fades. “It’s called motherfucking juggling, wicked sister. Maybe if your busted ganderbulbs were working, you could tell the difference between tossing and dropping.”

“Maybe if you put down the pie for five minutes you could actually catch the clubs, instead of just watching them fall with a dumb look on your face.”

Gamzee gathers his legs under himself. He is considerably taller than Terezi, taller, in fact, than Kanaya, or John, or anyone else here. The highbloods grow up big, and your moirail is no exception.

He cranks Terezi’s chin up with the tip of one claw so her face is inclined at an uncomfortable angle, nearly straight up. Her mouth is a toothy snarl. “I didn’t see you up there, baby girl, showing off your motherfucking talent.” He hooks her chin an inch higher, forcing her to her tiptoes.

“You know who else won’t be showing off tonight? _Nepeta!_ ” She spits the name like an invective, full of venom and spite. Nepeta was her friend, once. Yours too. That was a long time ago.

Gamzee lets her loose, rocking back on his heels. The name, the accusation, is like a slap. He remembers that day, but he’s never been able to give you an explanation for what he did, other than the fundamentally unsatisfying excuse of being off sopor. After seasons of talking in circles, you came to the chilling conclusion that Gamzee murdered Nepeta and Equius simply because they were in the way.

Slowly, his mouth curls into a vicious smile that pulls his scars taut. They reflect the stage lights: three silver lines. The last testament of Nepeta Leijon.

Terezi, for once, is speechless as her kismesis twists her arm behind her back, arching her backwards against his supporting arm. He makes as if to kiss her, but instead sinks his eyeteeth into her cheek. Terezi’s squawk of indignation accompanies the sound of ripping hair. It leaves a purple stain on the floor where it falls.

The hulking troll takes Terezi’s wrist and bends down, down, until he can press his shoulder into her stomach. When he straightens he’s got her in a fireman’s carry, right arm hooked around the back of her knee, heedless of her flailing limbs. Her furious screeching continues unabated down the hall until it’s muffled abruptly by a slamming door. Trolls and humans alike uncover their ears with nervous chuckles.

You watch them leave with a sense of loss. What the festering fuckstain did she See when she looked at you that made her so angry?

You catch Jade eying you thoughtfully from across the room, and suddenly you don’t think you want to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roxy chapter next week. See you then!
> 
> John, you cheeseball x2 combo: ["Rocket Man" - Elton John](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DiPT-seJ9uc)
> 
> Theme for Karkat and Terezi: ["Night by Night" - Chromeo](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ppNC0uAaCv0)


	5. Be Roxy Lalonde.

This is not the sort of thing you can be ready for.

You fall in love. You build a home. You play hard and work harder and strive to make life easier for the family you love. Before you know it you’re all grown up, even though you’re only sixteen.

And then one day you’ve got the prowlbeast by the tail and it’s all you can do to hold on.

Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and you’re going to have a baby.

* * *

This is the day you wake up feeling hung over but there’s nothing to do except grin and bear it.

You show up fashionably late to breakfast, which is a good excuse to gracefully retreat to the garden after a single cup of coffee. Today, Jake’s mission is to venture into the bog on the far side of the river and return with as much peat as his puzzle modus can carry, so you’d like to finish breaking the ground by dinner if you can manage it.

You armor yourself in fabric and shade and sunscreen until no inch of skin is unprotected. It’s heavy labor in oppressive heat, marginally tolerable only because of hourly visits to John at the construction site. Only a few weeks ago, the breeze was lively enough that refreshment breaks could be spaced at two or three hour intervals in spite of the blistering sun, but no longer. Privately, you think of these as the interminable dog days of summer, and if some Cassandra were to tell you that winter is coming you’d laugh in her face.

The hard truth is that none of you know jack shit about this planet. When is hurricane season? How long is a year? What are you going to do about birthdays? These are important questions, for christsakes. Jade and Dave are “working on it,” or so they chirp whenever the subject comes up, but everyone’s got so many commitments that prioritizing has become a real issue.

Rose’s policy is to prepare for the worst; that’s the reason you’re building foot-thick walls when you’re not even sure yet that this planet has seasons. It’s a measure of respect that Rose’s mildest suggestion is executed with the same expedience as a direct order. When crowd delegation holds sway – when you’re divvying up chores – her name is essentially taboo; there’s an implicit assumption that she will use her time to best effect. She simply appears where the need is greatest, dropping knowledge like spoor.

Rose – Rose. She’s a legend come to life, everything you wanted her to be, supernaturally competent and yet somehow still flawed enough to be real. You’ve seen her haughty and proud, you’ve seen her alone and in tears, you’ve held her hair for her over the toilet bowl more than once. You’ve also seen her rip the fabric of reality like rotten cloth and bind the devil with it while he roared and thrashed. You’ve seen her turn a debilitating rout to her advantage. You’ve seen her in the grip of her monsters, a hot-eyed harpy who couldn’t tell friend from foe, and not one of you knew whether she’d be lost for good this time. When Kanaya prized her away from the abyss, her skin was covered with marks from their puckered mouths that took weeks to fade away completely. She swore she would never let the darkness use her again, but she had her fingers crossed behind her back, and you saw that too.

Is she the mother you dreamed of? Far from it. Nor sister either – she’s friendly enough, socially, but insanely private when it comes to girl talk. When she hangs out, it’s with Kanaya or not at all. You’ve got Jane for all your sisterhood needs, and now Terezi too, and sometimes Calliope comes to see you in your dreams. Rose is just Rose and that’s good enough for you.

Just a few days ago she was working beside you in the garden, teaching you about soil as she turned shovel after shovel of the sandy stuff, making a game of finding stones to skip in the little pond. Some days she does nothing but research, and it’s not unusual to find her curled next to Kanaya, each burrowed into her own textbook.

Today, Rose is consulting with Karkat on the dry-sounding subject of load-bearing walls while Dirk, John and Gamzee troubleshoot the mech. The device, under Dirk’s guidance, is intended to maneuver the desperately heavy stone blocks into place onto the mortar laid by the other two; from the sound of it, Dirk thinks the problem lies in the force multiplier algorithm, John thinks it’s the piston grip, and Gamzee thinks everyone needs to chill out for half a motherfucking minute.

Dirk threatens the mechsuit halfheartedly: “If you don’t behave, I’m going to take you apart and make a forklift with the pieces.” It has no effect, of course. Even the mech knows it’s Dirk’s baby. Under the brim of his cowboy hat, his cheekbones are splattered with sweat and freckles. The boys pass the ladle between them, gulping, and John has the grace to laugh at Gamzee’s dirty bucket jokes even though he’s heard them all a hundred times before.

Back in the garden after watering Rose and Karkat, you lean over your shovel and heave a sigh. Between the heat – it’s not even noon – and the rebellion taking place in your midsection, you’re going to need to call in reinforcements.

You find Terezi in the kitchen, where she’s driving Jane to distraction. “Go on, take her,” Jane tells you, “I don’t need help today.” The trolls’ skin is impervious to the sun, and Terezi can’t get any blinder, so she’s good to go. She pops a finger full of banana bread batter into her mouth and follows you out the door, chattering like a motor.

“What are you going to do for the next open mic? I was thinking about performing a scene from a movie. There’s a great scene I had in mind where this legislacerator, Atakas Flinch, is defending a rustblood –“

“We have that one! It’s called ‘To Kill a Mockingbird.’”

“No, you didn’t let me finish! It’s not about wingbeasts at all! It’s about the injustice inherent in a hemostratified society and the consequences of standing up for people who can’t defend themselves!”

“Mm-hmm. What’s it called again?”

Terezi takes a deep breath. “’A mid-blooded legislacerator living in a hemodiverse, modestly-sized community center heroically defends a physically handicapped rustblood unjustly charged with assault of a young mustard-blooded female who in actuality was probably attacked by her own lusus…’ yada yada… something about a lynch mob… um….”

“’To Kill a Mockingbird’ is a little bit easier to remember, don’t you think?”

Terezi sticks out her tongue and changes the subject. “What about you? All of you humans play musical instruments, don’t you?”

“I hadn’t really given it that much thought. Maybe Gamzee will let me try to play ring toss with his horns. I’m better at it if I get liquored up first.”

Terezi bares her teeth. “Stay away from Gamzee, or I will slice you up and feed you to him.” She punctuates this with a particularly forceful stab of the shovel.

“Doesn’t Karkat still have your specibus?” That was an epic scene: Gamzee, with his long arms wrapped around Terezi; the tiny troll slipping out of his grasp, whip fast, determined to kill her matesprit for the crime of disarming her. Karkat interrupted his own blistering diatribe to tongue at a loose fang. He spit it into his palm and stared at it silently, letting Terezi's screaming wash over him. Gamzee just caught her again in the crook of his elbow and waited until she wore herself out.

Losing specibus privileges was the punishment she earned for sneaking off the grounds and nearly getting herself killed. You wondered why Karkat didn’t do it the other way around and let Gamzee be the bad guy. Sometimes you think his vaunted romantic expertise is not all it’s cracked up to be.

Terezi’s not over it yet, either. “That nooksniffing cretin won’t give it back,” she minces.

“Did you see the look on his face when Gamzee carried you out of the room last night? Sorry, that was a stupid question.”

“No, I didn’t _see_ it,” she hisses sibilantly, “but I’m sure it was perfectly delicious.”

“I don’t know if ‘delicious’ is the word I’d use, Terezi. More like you cracked open his chest and sold his pump biscuit to the highest bidder.”

“Good. No more than he deserves for entertaining the attention of that apple-eyed harlot.” Her mouth drips scorn.

“Why are you so determined to push him away? He wouldn’t give anyone else a second thought if you’d actually treat him like your matesprit.” You turn to address her, hand on your hip. “What the hell are you going to do with two kismeses, T? And why are you putting Gamzee and Karkat’s moirallegiance at risk over this shit?”

“I never know up from down with him! One second he’s fawning all over me like an especially loyal lusus and the next he’s scolding me like I’m two sweeps old!” The shovel slips from her fingers and comes to rest in a divot between two mounds of dirt. “Hate is so much easier than love. Roxy, I think I’m losing my mind.”

You offer her a ladle of gross hot well water in lieu of an answer. It’s almost time to fill up and go see the boys again.

It’s been difficult for Terezi to stay busy, and you know she feels a little awful over it. She’s so small that heavy lifting is out of the question, and she has already proven herself to be a walking safety violation in the company of construction equipment. It’s silly, really: once it’s time to finish the interior of the house, her help will be invaluable. She’ll probably have the thing painted before anyone else can lift a finger. For now, though, she’d rather be out beyond the walls than stuck in the kitchen, but Karkat forbade it on the grounds that she couldn’t defend herself at range. Now that he has her canes, she can’t defend herself at all.

Terezi offers the ladle back to you. The warm liquid goes down badly and comes up a minute later, with the coffee. She helps you wipe your mouth. “Maybe you should lay off the liquor if you’re going to be out slaving in the sun the next day.”

“Yeah, maybe.” You hope that sounds noncommittal. You haven’t had a drink in weeks.

“Why don’t you go inside for a few minutes? I’ll get the boys their water.”

“Thanks, sweetie.”

* * *

Under Terezi’s supervision, the garden work is finished at a reasonable hour, in plenty of time to watch the drama that unfolds at Jake’s return from the wilds. It’s particularly ripe tonight.

“What in tarnation is WRONG with you?”

“Where have you been? I expected you back hours ago.” Dirk’s tone is mild, but your Strider sense detects tension.

“Hours ago? Why the hell would I do that, Dirk? I told you yesterday it was going to take me all day to get down to the marsh and back. Didn’t I, Jane?”

“You did. You said you were going to be late to dinner and we shouldn’t wait for you.”

“That’s right. So why am I back two hours before mess with _no fucking peat_?”

“You tell me,” Dirk says, but Jake’s already unpacking his modus.

“Because someone,” he says, pulling out a canteen.

“Filled every,” unscrewing the cap.

“FUCKING CANTEEN,” tipping it over.

“ _WITH SAND!_ ” The damning evidence makes a mess all over the floor. He shakes out the last few grains and chucks the thing at Dirk’s head, forcing him to dance out of the way.

“It worked, didn’t it?” Dirk actually sounds a little smug.

“ _You’re going to get me killed!_ ” He's half crouched, his hands balled into fists, like he's going to grapple with his boyfriend right here in the hallway. Dirk's goading him on purpose, you think. Trying to make him lose control.

“What am I supposed to do? Chew my nails and polish the china until you get home? Fuck that.”

“Aradia’s been out there for weeks and no one’s flipping their lid about when she’ll be back!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jake, of course we’re worried about Aradia –“

Dirk steamrolls right over Terezi’s intercession. “Aradia is fine, Jake. You want to know why? _She’s immortal_. Unlike you.” He takes a long step over the empty canteen to stand just next to his lover. If he’s trying to intimidate Jake he’s going to have to grow at least three more inches. “If you would stop taking idiotic risks I wouldn’t have to –“

“Idiotic risks? What in god’s name do you call this?” Jake shakes a full canteen under Dirk’s nose. “Because of this bull malarkey stunt you pulled, I’m going to have to go back out again tomorrow. Is that what you want?”

“No, I –“

"Confound it, Dirk, what the hell do you want from me?" His voice cracks into a higher register.

“I JUST WANT YOU SAFE,” Dirk roars, ripping the canteen from Jake’s hand and hurling it with such force that it bursts, spraying sand across the floor. Jake’s not the only one who can’t quite parse what just happened. You’re trying to remember the last time you heard Dirk raise his voice. Before anyone recovers, he’s leaving, the wooden flooring shuddering under his bootheels.

“That was awesome,” you breathe. Terezi gives you a funny look.

“It didn’t bother you at all? Lady, if I didn’t know better I’d say they were in spades.”

“It’s like watching a sinking ship. I can’t look away.”

“Whether or not that altercation resembled an Earth maritime disaster, you have to admit they’re getting worse.”

You nod. Dirk’s got to be at his wit’s end if he’s resorting to sabotage just to get Jake's attention. Silly boys. If only they could hold one real conversation instead of letting every argument turn into a strife, they might actually learn something about each other. “I don’t know if any of us really understand what he went through when the ‘pimp of time’ fucker brained Jake.” Terezi bobs her head grimly in response. “I mean, how would you feel if a musclebound green skull monster killed Karkat right in front of you? Knowing he doesn’t have any more chances?”

“I think I would be pretty pissed.” She turns to face you, ruby glasses blank and empty. “I’ve got dibs.”

* * *

On your way down the hall to bed after picking at your dinner (three mouthfuls of mashed potatoes and one of green beans, then spread the rest around a bit so it looks like you ate more) you hear a curious noise at the end of the hall, a sad intermittent plunk. As you get closer you hear soft voices, John’s and Jane’s. Their voices are nearly only distinguishable by pitch; it’s so fine to imagine them growing up together, brother and sister, playing and giggling and sharing secrets. When you get close enough you can make out a few words.

“Did your dad ever play this one?” Someone, presumably John, begins a sweetly simple little ditty.

After a moment, a second hand joins in with the harmony. You know what you would see if you peeked around the corner: two bodies squeezed on the bench, two arms wrapped around two narrow waists, two hands fluttering on the keyboard, two heads seeking the solace of a shoulder.

The song wends itself down into a pregnant silence, broken only by Jane’s soft: “I miss him so much.”

You make it back to your room before anyone catches you blubbering, wondering if this overwhelming tide of weepiness portends your emotional state for the next eight months. God, you hope not.

John told you once that he wouldn’t wish his dad back to life, because doing so would nullify his decision to stop running from Jack and spend his last few hours with Rose’s mom… who was you, in an earlier incarnation. As you’re undressing for bed you think that if anyone ever managed to kill John, you’d drag him from the grave by his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week we meet our final POV - Dirk Strider.
> 
> Theme for Terezi: ["The Fear" - Lily Allen](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q-wGMlSuX_c)


	6. Be Dirk Strider.

I don’t really want to tell this part of the story, but apparently my choices are to do the talking myself or let my head be ransacked by a stranger, and fuck that shit with a carving knife. It’s claustrophobic enough in here as it is.

Jake and I were fighting again. I don’t remember about what, because that’s what happens to bad memories, they coalesce into smooth little droplets that can’t be examined because they’re just gummy globs of emotion without enough details to glue together, so you end up smothering the facts with feelings. Anyway, it was the kind of fighting that turns into fucking, and it was the kind of fucking where people get hurt, because that’s what happens when you’re so smothered that you mix up your feeling and your fighting and your fucking.

So that happened and then sometime after that I heard this noise in the hallway – what? I’m telling it wrong? Really?

Fine. I’ll tell it “the right way.” Whatever that’s supposed to mean.

* * *

I had hauled Jake into my room after catching him in the common room with his head in Jane’s lap, letting her drag her fingers through his hair. (I really don’t remember what we were fighting about, so this part’s made up, okay? But this was around the time we were fighting about Jane, so it makes sense chronologically, and that’s good enough.)

“What the hell did I tell you?” I demanded, shaking him by his noodley arm. The guy didn't exercise except by picking fights out in the yard, so his muscle definition left something to be desired, but he could throw his weight around when he wanted to. Jake English, the gentleman brawler, the love of my life, the man too headstrong to reason with. I was shaking him, yeah, but all I really wanted was to make him listen.

“Dadgum it, I wasn’t flirting with her! We were just talking.”

Just talking, my ass. You should have seen the way he was looking at her, like a dog watching its owner, begging to be coddled. Sometimes Jake could be so fucking obtuse. Did he seriously not notice the way she settled into him when he hugged her? The way she oriented her head when he was in the same room, so he was never out of sight? “You need to spell it out. Make it fucking explicit.”

“She’s not stupid, Dirk. She knows I’m not interested in her like that.”

“You're fucking right, she's not fucking stupid. She sees the way you act around her and correctly interprets it as flirting. What kind of game are you playing? Do you want to see how many fools you can wrap around your finger?”

“It’s been a long time since I had you wrapped around my finger.” He laughed, sweet and dirty, and wove his fingers into mine, pulling me close. My body betrayed me instantly, melting against him as though he were literally hot. Instead of, you know, figuratively. Which he most definitely was.

God, I'm terrible at this. Maybe I should ask Roxy to write this scene out for me. She'd be fucking ecstatic.

Jake kissed me, dipping forward because his shoulders were thrown back, holding my hands to cross at the small of his back. It was just a peck, really, but I was so strung out on the boy that the smallest hint of affection turned me up to eleven. I worked one free and caught his neck, forcing his mouth open hungrily. All of my plans for talking this one out like adults were burning away in his radiation. He bit my bottom lip, hard, and broke away. "Does that mean you wanna be around my finger?"

Of course I did, I wanted him in me, because when we’re together he’s all mine and there is not an inch left over for Jane fucking Crocker. I was relieved, I guess, that he still wanted me, and I threw myself at him because I didn’t trust his patience. Playing hard to get seemed like the fast track to a broken heart. Why would he waste time wooing me when he could have Jane wet and willing with a single word?

“Fuck yes,” I said, hoarsely, skinning off my shirt. Was I really so insecure? Jane wouldn’t have even gotten close to him if I was on my game, but I was such a fucking tool for Jake English. So pitifully desperate for attention that I would put up with his side squeeze if it meant he’d come back to me at the end of the day. I should have thrown him out and let him come begging back once he got what he wanted from her and figured out that’s all it ever was. But I couldn’t bear the thought of him in her arms. I guess that’s my weakness revealed. Here I am exposing myself in front of you people like I was exposing myself for Jake, a dancing monkey, an hour’s entertainment. Fuck me.

He pressed me back against the bed, tongue flaying my mouth, wrapping his hand around my dick. I had to hold onto the bedpost just to stay upright, fumbling behind me for lube with the other hand. “I don’t know what you’re so worked up about, Strider,” he put in between one red-hot kiss and the next, spreading my cheeks and running a finger down the crease. I slapped a hand to his chest, the bottle trapped under my palm, trying to push him back so I could regain my footing. He wasn’t having it. He bent me backwards over the edge of the bed, my feet sliding on the rug, while he slicked up his hand.

“We’re just friends, me and Jane.” His finger found my ass, making it even harder to breathe than it was already. I gulped air and tried not to fuck his fist before he even got his cock in me. His belt buckle gave way on the fourth try, and once I managed to yank the whole array off his hips he dismissed it with a kick to mingle lewdly on the floor with the rest of our clothes.

It only took a few strokes to make him hard. My mouth worked, wanting more than anything to swallow him down, but he didn’t intend to let me anywhere near and I couldn’t find my voice to ask nicely. He worked his finger in circles, sliding it in and out, while he ravaged at the skin under my collarbone. I gathered myself long enough to hook a leg behind his knee and knock him crashing to the ground, pulling me down with him. His breath knocked out, glasses askew, I glowered at his majestic dishevelment and told him what I thought.

“If you pulled your head out of your ass, you would see that she’s stupid for you," I growled, grinding into him so hard he whined. He ripped off his glasses and smashed his face against mine. We grappled there on the floor, wrestling ‘naked as jaybirds’ (as he would have put it.) Our legs tangled roughly, our mouths were hurtful and greedy. Our hands were cruel.  He was all I ever wanted; I didn’t know how to tell him with words how much it hurt that he didn’t feel the same way about me, so I tried to tell him with my body, as though if I could pin him hard and long enough he'd finally listen. It seemed as though there was a charge between us, like static, that made every caress sting like a slap.

“You’re leading her on, Jake, and it’s fucking with her head,” I said just as he gained the upper hand. He flipped me hard in answer; I landed on something that stabbed my side, a sharp, focal pain. The jackass must have left bullets in the pocket of his shorts. It felt exactly like stepping on a screw, barefoot, when it digs into the most tender part of your arch. I remember thinking I was going to have a hell of a bruise.

Jake’s face hung above mine. He was never so gorgeous as in that moment, flushed with triumph, his emerald eyes flashing and dark hair curling with sweat. “No one gives their heart away for free,” I lied, choking on the pain in my chest.

“How do you want me?” he asked, lifting off my shades and carefully setting them aside. He kissed me gently, as though victory had made him merciful.

“Behind,” I managed against his mouth. I thought maybe if he couldn’t see my face I could hide my agony. Each breath felt like a knife wound.

Rolling on a condom one-handed, he leaned me against the bed. He nuzzled my cheek while his wet fingers sought out my ass: one finger, then two, slippery and smooth as a snake. Awkwardly, I cradled his head as I craned back over my shoulder in sweet osculation. He worked me until I was loose enough not to notice the bump of his knuckles when he slid in. He added a third finger, and I groaned, which just made him laugh into my mouth. I tore at him desperately, ignoring the ache in my twisted neck. The spear in my side, I could not ignore.

His dick felt like an iron bar pressed against my ass cheek. It was all I could do not to beg him to fuck me. It was all I could do not to scream. “At least she doesn’t want to put me on a leash,” he said breathlessly, hips thrusting against his hand, impatient for a piece of me.

“Jake. Please,” I said through my teeth, and he took it as an invitation, plunging into me slickly, releasing his breath in a measured exhalation. I might have screamed just a little then.

“How is that?” he asked, rocking hard into me. I moved his hand to my cock so he could feel for himself, and he enfolded me, stroking in time with his body. I wanted him like this forever, filling me, fucking me, and it was both the best and worst thing I could imagine, as I shuddered under the impact of his hammering thrusts.

“If a leash is what it takes to bring you home, I’ll fit you for the collar myself,” I said, panting hoarsely. “The tag will say ‘Dirk’s Bitch’.”

He pushed harder, deeper, clutching me tightly against him with one hand while pumping with the other. I wrapped my fingers around his wrist to help him, bucking shallowly into his fist, trying not to breathe or clench up or do anything else but think about Jake English’s cock rolling into me like the tide. His breath felt hot and heavy on my neck. I had given up on trying to reach his mouth; my teeth were embedded in my upper arm. I wanted every inch of him. He drove the air from my lungs with a ragged whine that built with each slap of skin. When he found the right spot and hit it, not just once but again and again, the pleasure and pain swelled to a crashing roar and I didn’t prolong it. I let myself go.

Jake rammed into me, cursing himself ragged, gouging the angry bruise over my ribcage with his clawing fingers. I felt him throbbing inside me, his toes digging into the floorboards – but it was far away, drowned out by a shock of agony. My world exploded into hurt and white noise. I must have flung back my head. When I came back to myself there was a warm trickle on my back, dribbling onto my shoulder and creeping all the way down to my waist.

“Bullfeathers, Dirk, I’m bleeding all over the bedspread,” Jake said thickly.

“I have to wash the cum out of it anyway,” I groaned, curling in on myself. Trying to breathe without dying. I couldn’t manage more than a shallow flutter.

“I think you broke my nose, pumpkin.” Pet names only come out after sex, don’t ask me why. Probably for the same reason he cusses like a sailor when he comes, or loses half of his old timey vocabulary when he’s riled. It’s just Jake, don’t question it.

“Get some ice for it. I’ll take care of the mess.” It felt like he took forever shuffling around the room, making himself decent, but I waited until he was gone to lever myself off the bed. I pulled on some pants and opened the window, leaving the door ajar to get a draft, then just kind of spread out face down on the floor and tried to pass out.

* * *

The thing that roused me was the sound of Roxy puking outside my door.

I hauled it open, cringing at the effort, and there she was, bent nearly double, propped against the doorframe with one hand. Maybe I startled her, because the glass slipped out of her fingers and shattered. Her coughing stopped abruptly as she stared at the shards littered around her bare toes. Clenching my jaw and holding my breath, I lifted her up out of the danger zone, ordering her not to move from the bed where I set her down. She asked for a trash can. Well, I must have fucking handed her the one filled with bloody tissues, because she took one look and threw up on the comforter instead.

“I didn’t think you were sensitive to the sight of blood,” I told her tiredly.

“It’s not the sight, it’s the godawful smell. You and your room and your fucking bed reek of blood and sex. What the hell happened in here?”

“Christ, Roxy, leave it alone.” I pressed a hand to my side, probing the rib that sent searing pain up my spine every time I inhaled. It was definitely fractured, not even aligned properly. I wondered if I could pop it back in place myself without getting Kanaya involved.

“Not until we talk about this.”

“First I’m going to clean up the mess you made before someone steps in it. Then, maybe, we can talk.” I pulled on some boots and left her with a washcloth to wipe off the bedspread.

In the hall, trying to clear away the biggest pieces of glass, I realized that something was wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I walked back through the last few minutes: Roxy threw up, I opened the door, she dropped the glass –

Was that all it was? I remembered the shocked incomprehension on her face. Roxy never spills her drink. It’s a point of pride that no matter how wasted she is, no liquor ever touches the floor.

I inhaled softly, stifling my body’s protest. Bile, yes, sour and foul, but no alcohol.

That was the missing piece. I knew exactly what she was trying to hide.

After finishing in the hall, I pulled the door shut and ducked into the bathroom to rinse out the towel.

“Will you at least come over here and let me clean you up?”

“Not with that washcloth.” I crossed the room to retrieve it from her, and she caught my wrist.

“Why did you let him do this to you?” Pulling free, I turned back to the bathroom so she couldn’t see me wince.

“What makes you think he did anything that I didn’t ask for?” She didn’t answer. “If it makes you feel any better, the blood’s all his.”

“I know. He’s in the kitchen letting Kanaya set his nose.”

“Wouldn’t want to ruin his pretty face.” I came back to the bed and perched on it gingerly, avoiding the wet spots. “How’s he taking it?”

“Like a little bitch.” Roxy smiled like sunshine at the thought. The warmth of it loosened the tightness in my chest a little, so it didn’t feel so much like I was being impaled inch by inch.

“Good.”

“I like that cowboy swagger,” she sniggered. “It matches your boots.” I shoved her off the bed and started to strip it, wary of harassing my side.

“That’s enough of that. Let’s talk about you,” I said. “Does John know?”

“Does John know what?” I studied her face as she rolled herself upright, hugging her knees to her chest. She cycled through three different iterations of confusion before settling on weary dismay. “How did _you_ figure it out?”

“Because you’re drinking water out of a martini glass. Nobody does that, Roxy. Especially not you.” I cleared my throat uncomfortably. “That plus the puking makes pregnant. And for some reason, you don’t want anyone to know.” I eased down to the floor beside her. “Who would have thought little Roxy could keep a secret?”

“Fuck you. I’m good at secrets. But my body doesn’t want this one.” She poked me, hard, in the left biceps, which hurt a hell of a lot more than it should have. I looked down in alarm. There, on my upper arm, a purple ring of teeth marks was already hardening into a painful lump. I grunted.

“If you’re keeping it, then why haven’t you told John?” Roxy just shrugged. “Or anyone else. Kanaya needs to know. And so does your sister.”

“Rose knows. She took one look at me and told Kanaya to figure out how to deliver a baby. She looks tired, Dirk. I think she’s leaning on her Sight too much.”

“Don’t change the subject. What the fuck possessed you to pop one in the oven? Did your timer go off or something?”

“Someone told me I needed to have a baby, one night when I was sleeping.”

“’Someone’ who? The ghosts are all dead and gone.”

“Someone,” she repeated evasively.

“You’re so fucking weird,” I said. “Did you really get yourself knocked up over an idiotic dream?”

“I guess I did,” she retorted angrily.

“Well, at least you’re taking care of yourself.” I never thought I'd see the day Roxy Lalonde quit drinking. She'd made a career of alcoholism for the last four and a half years.

“I’m _trying_. I can’t keep anything down.”

“Have you told Jane yet? She’ll make sure you get the vitamins you need.”

“I was going to tell her after John, I guess.”

I touched her cheek. Her eyes glittered with fear, undercutting the brave face she was attempting to wear. “You know I’m here if you need me. Just ask.”

“I know, Dirk.” She closed her eyes, letting her head loll against my shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week is a (quite long) Karkat chapter. Ta ta!
> 
> Theme for Dirk and Jake: ["Kiss With A Fist" - Florence + The Machine](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1SmxVCM39j4)


	7. Karkat: Make up your mind.

“More for me then, brother, though I mourn to say it,” Gamzee says, his chin bobbing against your forehead.

You crane your head up to look at him. Though his eyes, like yours, are hidden by dark glasses, you think to yourself that you couldn’t have a more beautiful moirail. Your safe harbor. The single piece of your life you can count on not to go to shit.

The best thing about Gamzee – well, one of the best things – is that he’s never the first to pull away from a hug. Whether it’s his natural selflessness or a congenital lack of shame globes, you couldn’t say, but in times like this you appreciate it more than you could ever express.

The embrace of moirallegiance differs from what you now consider a ‘human-style’ hug primarily in the position of the feet. While normally the feet are set foursquare or perhaps offset slightly, the clasp of a moirail entails an alternating pattern of feet that requires each troll to stand athwart the other’s thigh, an intimate configuration somewhat more difficult to untangle. It’s an expression of solidarity, of the lowering of defenses, inherent to the relationship between two moirails.

You’ve decided to become a student of comparative anthropology, since you turned out to be such a lousy romantic.

Gamzee palms your cheeks and you exhale, letting the tension drain out like water. You reach up to touch his own face, running your thumb across the scar where it crosses his lips. His cheek huddles under the flat of your hand, and he purrs, eyelids heavy. You could stand here for ages, if not for the news he brought.

* * *

He had crossed the grounds in long strides to seek you out at the construction site. You were on the second floor, inspecting the crossbars that would eventually form the frame for hardwood flooring. Thanks to the unfinished walls, you marked Gamzee’s approach long before he reached you. It was Saturday, so you didn’t, strictly speaking, _need_ to be working, but you found the distraction a pleasant alternative to Terezi’s baleful red glare.

“The best news, beloved. Aradia’s come back at last.”

Welcome news indeed. Since she left, fear had driven all mention of her name to whispers, as though her survival hung on something as fickle as a jinx. It was a completely irrational reaction; Aradia is far too hardy to be felled by mere superstition – it’s why she was chosen for the job. As soon as her feet started itching for adventure, Rose had a solution.

You needed to know the lay of the land, and for that you needed an explorer, geographer, cartographer. Aradia accepted her charge with enthusiasm and goodwill. But she had a second objective which was far more exciting. She’d be making the announcement tomorrow night at her welcome home party, after Rose was fully debriefed. She’s closeted with the Seer now, Gamzee said, and taking no visitors, not even old friends. Terezi’s pacing like a caged lusus, he said.

“Let her walk it off. You know how much she hates being left out of shit.”

“Truer words never spoken, brother. That spitfire girl is as nosy as they come.” He tapped his claw against a fang thoughtfully. “Is that the trouble in my best beloved’s red quadrant? The wicked sister’s got her jealous on and can’t keep her motherfucking sniffer to herself.”

“Whatever choice she Sees in my future has her tying the noose and raising the gallows. The worst part is, she won’t tell me what she thinks I’m going to do!” You gnashed your teeth. “How am I supposed to avoid it if I don’t know what the rancid fuck it is?”

“She thinks the white-eared witch has her teeth in you. You know that, dear one.”

“Jade gives me the time of day. Unlike my supposed _matesprit_.” You wheezed, a voiceless, truncated cackle. “I’m done with it.”

“Done with what, brother mine?”

“Done with fighting. If Terezi’s given up on me without even trying, then why should I drag it out? All I’m going to do is get myself hurt. It’s time… It’s time to let her go.” The words left you trembling.

Gamzee enfolded you in his arms. He had to slump to rest his chin on your head.

“Egbert makes love look easy,” you mumbled into his shoulder.

“Of course he does. He’s got the motherfucking Breeze.” You choked a laugh. Gamzee dug his claws into your hair. “I’m gonna miss your strife with the prickly little livewire. She winds herself into an exquisite rage and gets so motherfucking _horny_.” His bulge twitched against your thigh as he chuckled obscenely. “Let me break the sorrowful news to her, sweetness. It would be my pleasure.”

“Who’d have thought this shitstorm had a silver lining,” you said quietly. When was the last time she came on to you? It’s been far too long. “She’s all yours. I’m finished with mind games.”

“More for me then, brother, though I mourn to say it,” said Gamzee.

Some time later, the two of you went back inside.

* * *

Everyone found their own ways to keep busy until the feast. Terezi and Roxy decorated the common room, stringing colorful paper ribbons across the ceiling and around the windows and then, out of some kind of misplaced completionism, they hung paper on every other available surface too: lamps, walls, chairs, even the doorway and dinner table had been adorned with a kaleidoscope of color. Jane and Gamzee had more hands in the kitchen than they could stand. Dave set up his turntables and dropped a beat. Jade and Kanaya were summoned to Rose’s respiteblock early on Sunday morning and hadn’t come out since, except for small errands. You… you sat outside Rose’s door and fretted. What was taking them so long? Surely coloring maps or naming rivers or whatever the fuck else they were doing in there could be done later.

They emerged at dinnertime, looking fresh and happy – Rose must have given them use of her ablution trap, because Aradia was radiant in a red dress that brushed the tops of her knees, her hair a towel-dried and turbulent river. She reached out, laughing, to help you up, and accepted your hug attack with good grace. “I missed you too,” she said in your ear, and her voice was so warm and cheerful that it made you ache. “Let’s go get some dinner, I’m famished!”

Now everyone is arranged at the dinner table, Aradia at the head, her friends at either side: Terezi at her right hand, and at her left, in the seat meant for you, sits Kanaya. You’re on the far side of Gamzee, who’s acting as a windbreak between his moirail and his kismesis. Across from you, Roxy, looking somewhat greyer than usual, is sandwiched between her sister and her boyfriend. Jade whispers in your ear that Roxy hasn’t been feeling well the last few days. You wonder if it hasn’t been longer than that; she looks like she’s lost weight.

Kanaya wants to start the party off with a toast, so everyone’s in a flurry to fill their glasses. On the other side of the table, Roxy is fending off John’s attempts to pour a few mouthfuls of beer into her cup.

“If you don’t want beer, then let me make you something with Sprite in it.” He rises from the table, trying to shake Roxy off his arm.

“No, please, just sit down.”

“Sprite’s good for an upset tummy. You won’t even taste the liquor, I promise.”

“That’s not the point, John!” Roxy takes a deep breath. She’s starting to tear up. You’ve never seen her cry before. You can’t get over the fact that human tears are crystal clear; her eyelashes seem to be strewn with diamonds. It would be terribly appealing if she wasn’t so drawn.

“Please. All I want is water.”

“You can’t toast with water! It’s against the rules.” He moves away. “I’ll only be a second.”

“John!” She’s out of her seat, wringing her hands, watching his back as he makes for the door. “John, wait, I…“ He can’t hear her over the bustle. She raises her voice.

“I’M PREGNANT, YOU DUMB SHIT!”

The room falls silent. The only sound is Roxy, gulping and sobbing in the most unattractive way, doubled over with her face buried in her hands. She appears to be trying to eat the end of her scarf. Rose is doing a double facepalm. Everyone else is holding their breath, watching John.

Everyone but Terezi. “Is she going to be okay?” she asks loudly. A chorus of shushes answers her.

John’s face is frozen wide open. His eyes are the sky, an endless expanse of blue.

When he moves, he trips over the leg of the bench and still manages to reach her in three giant steps. He lifts her chin from the soggy mess of the scarf. As she reads his face, the flood slows.

“Really,” she says.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“At first I wasn’t sure. And then when I was sure, I was afraid you wouldn’t be ready.”

“No, Rox, I’m not ready. No one’s ever ready for a baby.” He takes a deep breath. “Sweetie, I’m terrified. Just the thought of it kind of makes me want to throw up.” He stops right there and swallows, and you think, from his greenishness, maybe it will happen anyway. But it doesn’t.

“Honey, to tell you the truth…” His face breaks into a broad grin. “I can’t wait. Oh my god, this is going to be _awesome_! We’re gonna have a baby!”

Roxy smiles back at him, scrubbing the salt water and snot from her face with the clean end of the scarf. His dorky glasses slide off his nose as she pulls him down with both hands to kiss her. Dave wolf-whistles over a wave of delighted laughter and animation, and you clap, grinning wryly. They’re so fucking adorable, and their wiggler is going to be fucking adorable, and everyone will be hurling rainbows, including you. Fat, juicy, sticky-sweet grubsauce vomit rainbows. Fuck.

“That’s wonderful,” Aradia says, standing. “Congratulations to both of you!” She raises her glass in salute. “That actually segues nicely into my announcement.” She looks at Rose, who gives her the go ahead with a smile. Suddenly your pump biscuit is banging against your ribs with hope and dread.

“In the lowlands across the river, about seventy miles southwest of us, lies a network of limestone caves that stretches for hundreds of miles underground. The upper caverns are inhabited by large cave bears and hundreds of colonies of squeakbeasts, but the lower levels are dry and cool. Kanaya thinks it sounds perfect for the mother grub!” Aradia finishes breathlessly as Terezi wrings her hand, squealing.

You stand slowly amidst the furor. Sure, brooding caverns are great, but they’re only half the news you were hoping to hear. You clear your throat and wait for the room to quiet before you ask the question that’s been on your mind.

You address Aradia, just because she’s the one standing. “Not that we don’t appreciate your good news, because we do. This is the best we’ve gotten since we came to this hellhole.” (“Hey,” John whispers in mock anger, jerking his head at Roxy. You ignore him.) “But what the nooksplitting fuck are we going to do with brooding caverns if we don’t have a mother grub?” You toss back the dregs of your beer and fall back onto the bench with a thump.

Aradia opens her mouth, but falters. Kanaya comes to her rescue. “As you know, the only thing preventing us from alchemizing the matriorb was the exorbitant grist cost.” She smiles, green glimmering in the corners of her eyes. Rose squeezes her hand. “Thanks to the windfall from defeating Lord English, we can afford to make it now. Barely.”

Rose interrupts her matesprit’s sniffling. “What Kanaya’s trying to say is that if we decide to invest the vast majority of our cache in making the matriorb, we will need to be almost entirely self-sufficient. We won’t have grist left over for medical supplies, or construction equipment, or mechanical parts. Or food.” Jane nods grimly.

“If we can get the gardens in shape, and assuming we can still find game this winter, we can scrape through till spring with the odds and ends from our pantries. In the spring, though, we’ll have to sow.” Jane makes eye contact with Jade.

“I’ll move everything edible I can find in our houses to the kitchen tomorrow, so we can make an inventory. I’ll have to check on my seed stock, but if it hasn’t spoiled, I think we’re covered for planting next year! We’ll have to save our own from now on, though.” Jade’s thigh bounces against yours, making the whole bench quiver. She’s thinking about greenhouses again.

Dave speaks up: “Don’t fret your pretty head about spoilage, babe, I’ve got this shit on lockdown.” He makes a gesture, like turning a dial. “Pause, slow, fast forward, fuck, rewind’s like falling off a bike.”

“I didn’t know you knew how to ride a bike, bro. You should teach me sometime.” Dave swivels his stem, precisely and unhurriedly, to level a glare at Dirk. Well, maybe he bothers to glare, maybe he just lets his aviators do the talking. Hard to say. Your fingers itch to pry them off his face and find out.

“What about sopor?” you rasp.  Under the table, your claws are burrowing into Gamzee’s leg.

“Sopor is cheap. We should be able to keep it on hand for a little while.” Gamzee pats your hand heavily and gives you a crooked smile. Rose cautions, “Eventually, we will need to find another solution.” That will have to be good enough. What other choice do you have?

“We need an ultrasound machine.” John leans forward to mouth his gratitude at Dirk, lounging on his elbow at the end of the table. The bigger Strider acknowledges him with a shallow nod.

Rose shakes her head sadly. She looks down at her sister. “I’m so sorry, Roxy.”

The muscles shift in Roxy’s jaw. She looks at you, at Terezi, at Kanaya getting all emotional with her napkin. “Let’s do it,” she says. John’s arm tightens around her shoulder.

“You sure, cupcake?” Shitting bulgecockles, Egbert, baked goods are not appropriate terms of endearment.

“They delivered babies for thousands of years without ultrasound, didn’t they? Didn’t they, Dirk?” He reluctantly accedes. The other humans are nodding. “Yes, absolutely. Let’s do it.”

If you could reach Roxy, you would kiss her, and John be damned.

“We have a motion. Do we have a second?” Rose is a stickler for protocol, even though she technically has the final say. It’s why she’s your leader. One of the reasons, anyway.

“Seconded.” Three voices, only one a troll.

“All in favor?” The room echoes with ayes. “Against?” Nothing. “It’s unanimous. We will alchemize the matriorb.” At the head of the table, Aradia is beaming. Gamzee weaves his fingers between yours. On the other side, Jade does the same.

She smiles at you brightly and says, “We’ll make it work!” You brush her knuckles to your lips. Her nails today are sparkling black, like stars.

John stands and lifts his glass. The rest of the table follows suit.

“A toast, to Aradia and the mother grub!” Light sparkles in thirteen glasses.

“To motherfucking life,” you grunt, more quietly.

“Cheers!”

“Now eat up before everything gets cold,” Jane says, and you all fall to with abandon.

* * *

Some time later, reeling a bit, you make your way up the slope to the kitchen to bring down more beer. Dave’s got the music cranked so loud you can hear it all the way out here. You blunder into the pantry, bending down to peer at the labels on the beer kegs, when a sharp pinch in the left butt cheek rockets you into the air.

“Jade! You scared the blinding white bulbfuck out of me.” Panting, you lean over, fist held against your chest. She steps forward so that your cartilage nub is almost in her human breast cleavage, which has you straightening up again in a hurry.

“It was just too tempting! I couldn’t keep my hands to myself,” she says, wiggling her fingers. Innocent of the concept of personal space, she reaches for your face. “Did you know your eyes are turning red?” You pull her hand back down and put her at arm’s length.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Just talking. Spending a minute with a friend.”

“In the dark, in a pantry, with no one else around.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Um.” You can’t think of anything, actually. Maybe her perfume is clouding your mind. Or maybe it’s the beer. You thought the fourth one tasted off. “You pinched me.”

“And I’ll do it again!” She runs her hand down your arm, detaching it from her shoulder and moving it to her waist, where it rests in the dip above her hip bone. Jade is not the most bizarrely proportioned of the human females – that would be Roxy – but she’s not straight lines, either. Humans have a much more pronounced sexual dimorphism than trolls, you’ve noticed.

The hand feels nice where it is, so you leave it there. How did she get so close? You attempt to steer her away again, without any success.

“Can I touch them?” Before you can answer, she’s running a finger around the base of your horn.

“Ja-aaah. Aaahh. You don’t know what you’re doing.” Your fingers tighten around her fragile wrist.

“Sure I do.” She takes you other horn in her fist. “You’re so cute when you blush, Karkat.” Blushing is the last weapon in your arsenal. Jade’s got you by the reins.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want _you_.” Your mouth goes dry. You have to swallow to get the next part out.

“What about Dave?”

“I’ll take care of Dave. You worry about Terezi. They’ll never know.”

“Terezi and I are over.”

“So what’s the problem?” She twists you by the horns to deliver a piercing stare at close range. Her eyes are hard and determined, but her mouth is soft, and her kisses are like down feathers. Your heartbeat picks up the pace and you find yourself reluctantly responding. The next time your lips touch, you let her in, reveling in the taste of her mouth. Her tongue probes yours.

Moaning miserably, you pull away.

She licks her lips. “No one likes a whiner, Karkat,” she scolds, leaning into you. Her skin feels cool against yours.

You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling her breath against your cheek. You’re afraid if you open them, the dream will end. This can’t be happening. You don’t want it to happen. You fell in love with the perfect girlfriend. If she wants to leave Dave – well, it means she’s not who you thought she was. The girl drawing diagrams in the dirt and building castles in the sky. The girl with big fucking plans and an even bigger heart, who would never throw her happiness away for an ill-considered fling with the likes of trash like you.

And yet – and yet. You don’t just discard the affection of someone like Jade Harley, even if she is patently out of your league. Especially if. And if she thinks she can handle Dave… well, it’s a convenient fiction at worst, and even at best it’s not like anything between you and Jade will be a long-term arrangement. What’s there to lose? You’re damned no matter what, so you might as well enjoy yourself.

In a way, Terezi made the decision for you. Your singing blood drowns out the voice in your pan that calls this rationalization.

“If you don’t like whiners than you sure as fuck shouldn’t like _me_.”

“Don’t be silly! There’s plenty to like about you!”

“That’s a load of hoofbeast feces and you know it.” You nuzzle her cheek, breathing deeply. She smells like garden dirt and green wood.

“Well, for instance, you make these little faces sometimes. Not the big ones you do when you talk to people, the ones when you forget yourself. I like those.”

“Hrmph.”

She releases one horn to skim her hand down your neck and into the back of your shirt, pausing between your shoulder blades. “I like the texture of your skin, like wrapping paper on a present that it’s almost time to open.” She runs her fingernails across your spine, making you shudder. Your body is on fire for her touch. The anticipation is exquisite.

She’s right – no one likes a whiner, and you’re ready to stop feeling sorry for yourself. You press your lips across her earlobe and along her hairline, feeling her jaw move against your collar bone. Feelings are stupid, kissing is awesome, and that’s a truth you can take to your grave.

“I like the way your hair does six impossible things before breakfast,” she continues.

You card a hand through your mane, embarrassed. It’s the same it’s always been, thick and stiff, standing up like a behemoth’s dorsal ruff. Maybe you could tame it with a haircut. Or maybe you should leave it alone, if Jade likes it the way it is. Your fingertips meet, sending a new wave of sensation through the fibers that innervate your horn, and you inhale sharply.

Your lips make their way to the base of her stem. You want badly to nip at her, but her skin is so thin and fragile you’d surely leave a mark.

“I like your delicious melt-in-your-mouth pancakes,” she giggles, raising her shoulder to protect her suddenly-ticklish neck from your mouth. You go for the other side, feeling her arms tighten around you as she fends you off a second time.

“The secret to making great pancakes is –“

“Don’t tell me!” she squeaks, covering your mouth, laughing giddily. The moonlight falling through the open window makes her eyes sparkle with breathless delight. You can’t look away.

“I like the way you look at me like I’m the most expensive toy in the store and you can look but never touch –“

You peel her hand away from your face. “Touching you now,” you tell her. Your lips meet and it’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever felt, stealing kisses in the dark, feeling like you’re wrapped in clouds and nothing at all can bring you back to the ground.

“What do you like about me?” she whispers.

“I like the way your eyes hide nothing at all,” you answer, kissing her eyelids. “I like your voice, it sounds like music. Your laugh is like wind chimes.” She laughs for you; her throat buzzes against your lips. Terezi’s voice could be used to grate vegetables, but Jade’s would make them dance.

“I like that you paint your nails to hide the dirt caked underneath,” you tell her, kissing her fingertips. “I like the way you pretty yourself up to go work outside even though you know it’s going to be ruined.” You wet your lips. “I like your amazing hair.” She’s never cut it, not since her grandpa died. It’s raven black and falls loose past her hips now, brushing the back of your hand.

“Everyone likes my amazing hair, Kar,” she smiles. “Sometimes Roxy comes by my room just to brush it. Dave’s writing an ode to my hair that gets longer every time we –”

“I like the way your barkbeast ears perk up when you hear his voice,” you interrupt.

Jade stills in your arms. She says “Yours too,” so softly you might have thought you imagined it if you didn’t see her lips move.

“I like the way you look at him. I wish you looked at me that way.”

“Dave is everything to me, but if not for him I would be yours in a second,” she says, quietly, seriously. “I’ll cherish every moment you choose to give me.” It’s a backhanded immortality she’s offering, and from another it would be patronizing, but in her mouth the words sound sincere. What would it be like to be the center of Jade’s universe? She could uproot reality if she wanted to. But she won’t. She wants to be loved for who she is, not what she can do.

You’re pretty sure you can give her that much. Love for immortality, a clean transaction, sealed with a kiss.

You cover her mouth again, more urgently this time, running your tongue along her teeth, playing hide-and-go-seek with her tongue. You slide your hands up to cradle her head, feeling the weight of her hair draped over your fingers. She sighs deeply, opening her mouth wider, inviting you to explore, and you feel a pang of desperation –

You push her away. “Fuck, fuck, shitting musclebeast tits, I’m going to fuck this up, just like I fucked up with Terezi, this is such a terrible idea….”

Jade wipes the spittle off her lips with the back of her hand, waiting for you to sputter into silence. When you’re ready to listen, she says, gently, “Her misery is not your fault. She doesn’t want to be loved, not by you or Dave or anyone else.”

“Everyone wants to be loved.”

She shakes her head. She must think you’re so naïve. “Terezi looks in the mirror and sees a cold-hearted monster who plays games with the lives of her friends. She sees a murderer. She sees a girl who threw her sister to the wolves instead of trying to save her.” You have to bite your lip to keep from retorting _Terezi can’t see any of that shit, she’s blind, fuckass_ , because you know Jade’s right. Terezi hasn’t been whole since the day she killed Vriska. You rejoiced to watch her pull away from Dave, but the same hate that polluted her back then blackens her mind even now.

“All that means is that I should have tried harder.”

“It wouldn’t have done any good! Terezi would kill you before she let you love her. Why do you think she’s so into Gamzee? She wants someone to tear her down to rubble so she can rebuild. She doesn’t need a matesprit, Karkat.”

You feel exhausted and heavy. You wonder if it’s too soon to ask Jade to come back to your room, if only to cuddle for a little while. “What the fuck does she need, then?”

“Redemption.” Her eyes, dilated in the dark, are deep pools. You lean forward to catch a glimpse of your reflection, lose your balance, and slide in without a sound.

* * *

That was the way it went between you: stolen kisses, stolen hours, a secret garden romance. You were each other’s uncharted territory. The first time you made love, in a pile of blankets in your half-finished stone respiteblock, was like learning how all over again, what goes where and how to move and what the other needs from you. The second time was the dress rehearsal, when you see how the pieces come together, how far you’ve come, how far you have left to go. Each time after that was magic. There’s no way to fuck a human quickly. It’s slow and awkward and alien every time, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t fantastic, especially after you stopped worrying about getting caught.

You never really got over not using a bucket. She took your genetic material inside herself and kept it. It seemed strange and unhygienic, but you guess that’s the way humans do it.

The other big difference – besides the fact that your bodies don’t quite fit together – is how delicate humans are. Their skin is thin and bruises easily, and they just don’t heal as quickly as trolls do. You told her once that that must be why their teeth are so dull, but she laughed and said it had more to do with diet than lovemaking. She asked you to file your nails blunt. That was her rule – don’t leave a mark. Don’t give Dave a reason to care. You treated her like something precious and rare, and it made sex that much more exotic.

She was right, in a way, about Dave. If he wanted to, he probably could have killed you. Instead he took the whole thing in stride, acting like the harassed chaperone of a willful child. He did what he could to make it difficult for you to meet, but never interrupted a tryst in motion. You don’t know if he thought that not acknowledging the relationship made it less legitimate; maybe he couldn’t be bothered as long as Jade still loved him. And she did. Even when she was plotting your next encounter, she was the perfect girlfriend, always putting Dave first. You doubt he had any reason to complain other than the minor fact of infidelity, nothing more than a footnote, really. It was a game played by the three of you, tucking in the corners and tightening the seams and all the while pleading ignorance of the monster under the blanket even as it lumbered towards the door.

Despite the lack of a true confrontation, tension built between you just like it did when he was seeing Terezi – an intensification of the baseline snark that would be there even if there were no girls to fight over. You were too alike in some ways, and it put you in each other’s paths. Sometimes you argued, sometimes you fought, but it never got past the kind of pissing contest that helps establish the social order. You were always careful to lose while still putting up a fight, because your happiness was contingent on Dave’s complacency.

Two knights, two blades, two hearts bleeding red. Two motherfucking mutants. Two alien races divided by thousands of generations and millions of sweeps, and yet the widest gulf between you is that he died on a stone. It wasn’t hard to lose, and you did it gladly for Jade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John chapter next week. <3
> 
> Theme for Jade and Karkat: ["Hey Boy" - Magic Kids](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4obA2YDc69o)


	8. John: Pester Rose.

Wow. A baby.

How old are you? Sixteen?

There is no way you are ready for this. Are you even dad material? Should you check your seams for an encouraging note? “Son, if you are reading this, it means you are now ready to father a child. I am so very proud of you. Go forth and multiply.”

Yeah right.

And yet… it doesn’t feel impossible.

Maybe it’s because you, unlike most of your friends, actually had a father growing up. Can you imagine what kind of dad Dave would make? He’d probably be terrorizing the kid and feeding him crap he found under the sofa cushions.

Or just filling the house with soda and a lifetime legacy of pop culture memorabilia and then heroically going off to die, leaving the kid to his own devices. That too.

But Dirk turned out okay, didn’t he? And so did Dave. He would probably actually be a pretty good dad. Teaching his kid how to strife and rap and use a turntable. How to draw shitty cartoons. He would be patient, because flipping out over stupid stuff is incredibly uncool.

Yeah. Dave would be a great dad. And so will you.

What about Roxy? Is she ready to be a mom? Three months ago you would have said no. Sure, she’s sweet, and fun, and incredibly generous with her love. But she was also the reigning queen of booze, with no intention to abdicate. Until now.

Is it that easy? Could she really have quit cold turkey? She’s never given you a reason to doubt her. So why is your heart so heavy?

There’s only one person who can grant insight into the heart of Roxy Lalonde.

You need to see Rose.

* * *

“Can I come in?”

Rose puts down her knitting and clears a place for you on the bed. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” She smiles, kindly, and it’s hard to believe you’ve ever seen her eyes ancient and empty.

Her quilt is a thousand colors, soft and careworn – worn through, in some places, where the seams come together. It smells not unpleasantly of warm bodies. “I want to talk about Roxy.”

“I thought you might. Kanaya, would you give us some privacy?” She waits until the door clicks shut to continue. “What’s on your mind?”

You realize, a little late, that there’s no easy way to broach this topic. Maybe feel her out first. “I was wondering what your take is on the whole pregnancy thing.”

“My take as a Seer? Or my take as Roxy’s daughter?”

You shrug. “Both, I guess.”

The needles go back to work. “I’m not sure that my childhood is particularly relevant. The woman who raised me was not really Roxy. I mean, genetically they were the same, but they had very different sets of experiences.” You nod. “Roxy grew up on a floating colony with carapacians and cats for company. She never knew her mother, never had physical human contact of any kind. She was the last woman alive. It’s miraculous that she survived as long as she did. I’m not at all surprised that she turned to alcohol to escape the solitude.”

“She had friends, though. Jane and Calliope. And she knew Dirk was out there somewhere. I guess I don’t understand why she kept drinking even after she finally got to meet everybody.”

“Don’t you? Can you imagine living a quarter of your life inebriated and just shaking it off like a bad dream? She didn’t even know how to be Roxy anymore. She spent her formative era leaning on a crutch. It takes time to learn to walk again.” Rose looks up, though the needles keep flashing. “Perhaps what you meant to say is that you don’t understand why she kept drinking after she met _you_.”

“Um. Maybe. I mean, I think she’s pretty happy. Am I not being supportive enough? Emotionally or whatever?”

Rose smiles. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. She’s been weaning herself down for months. I’m surprised you hadn’t noticed.”

You shrug. “I just figured she was busy working.”

“John, whether or not she still feels the need to drink, I think it’s more telling that she quit the moment she had a reason _not_ to drink.”

You close your eyes, because if you look at Rose, you won’t be able to articulate the thought that just wandered into your mouth. “I want to marry her.”

Rose snorts. That’s… not the reaction you were hoping for. “Why?” she asks.

“Because I love her!”

“That’s not a good reason.”

“Says who?”

Rose shakes her head. She’s digging through her basket for a new color. “I’m not questioning your commitment to Roxy, because it’s obvious to anyone with a brain that you’re terminally inseparable. What I mean is, why marriage?”

“That’s what you’re supposed to do when your girlfriend gets knocked up, isn’t it? Make an honest woman out of her.” Did that really just come out of your mouth? Your face feels like it could double as a stop sign. Luckily, Rose is skilled at failing to be distracted by your gauche babbling.

“I’m not explaining this well.” She pushes the whole mess of yarn aside and leans forward. “John, none of us grew up in a nuclear family, with a clutch of children arranged around one mother and one father. Frankly, in our society, the concept was becoming outdated. And besides, aren’t we already a family? Certainly the eight of us. We can’t even keep ourselves straight!” Her voice rings with laughter. It’s true. Dave and Dirk might be forever bros, but Roxy and Rose still can’t pin down who’s whose what. And you definitely consider Jane just as much of a sister as Jade, even if she is your mother-daughter-grandmother-granddaughter… Though you’d never call her Nanna! That would just be weird.

“The trolls are family too,” you add.

“Yes.” Rose sobers, surely thinking of Kanaya. You were thinking more of Karkat.

“You wanted to know my perspective as the Seer of Light.”

“Yes, please.”

“I know that it’s the furthest thing from your mind right now, but I want you to envision what this planet will look like in ten thousand years. Not just cities, but _culture_. Are we trying to recreate Earth?” Her violet eyes transfix you. “Or are we building something better?”

You stir against the bed post. “I don’t see how not marrying Roxy will make the world a better place.”

“Whatever you do will set a precedent. Not just for future generations, for your friends, too. I’m not saying you should or shouldn’t, because that’s up to you. I just want you to think carefully about what it means. It’s bigger than you.”

“What’s the alternative? Kids raising themselves in hives?”

Rose shrugs. “It worked for some of us. Certainly it would work for the trolls, in a pinch. But what’s wrong with the home we have here together? Surely you don’t think any of us expect you and Roxy to raise a child without help.” She picks up the knitting again.

You realize she’s making a tiny, baby-sized hat.

You didn’t think for a second your friends would let you blunder through fatherhood without interference. Nevertheless, Rose’s spoken – and unspoken – support means more to you than you could possibly express.

“Why can’t we have both? Why can’t I marry Roxy and keep my family too?”

“Now you’re talking,” she says, smiling. “What the concept of ‘family’ will entail begins with us. With _you_.”

“Does that mean you’ll give us your blessing?”

She laughs outright, slapping a hand across her mouth to muffle it. “Why are you asking me?”

“You’re kind of her mom?”

“I am the last person you should be asking. I barely know her.” She shakes her finger threateningly. “And why should I give you my blessing? You impregnated my sixteen-year-old daughter, you irresponsible little twerp!”

“Um. But.”

“But what? Your dad never told you about the birds and the bees? You should know better, John. Out of everyone here, you’re the last person I’d have guessed would forget to use protection.” She sighs. “At least you could have waited until we were settled into the big house.”

“Damnit, Rose, you’re making me feel awful!”

“You should feel awful!” She softens. “But maybe it’s for the best. After all, it’s only the future of the human race.”

“That’s a horrifying thought,” you say, shuddering.

“Get used to it.” She pokes you in the ribs. “Why don’t you ask Dirk for his blessing?”

“Dirk?” You try to make sense of this suggestion. It’s not working. “Dirk and Roxy aren’t even related.”

“No. But think about it. Who was there to bail Roxy out when she got into trouble? Who did she turn to when she was lonely and scared? It wasn’t Jane. Jane never believed that Roxy was from the future until they played the game.” She’s adding a green stripe to the edge of the hat. “Who’s the only person that Roxy listens to other than Roxy? And you, of course. It sure as hell isn’t me.”

You nod slowly. “All right. I’ll talk to Dirk.” You’re not looking forward to it. He’s kind of intimidating. “What you were saying about setting a precedent…”

“Yes?”

“What about you? Don’t you need to think about the future too?” She gives you a quizzical look, but waits for you to finish. “I think the precedent you and Kanaya set will be a lot more important than anything that happens between me and Roxy.”

Rose’s eyes focus on something outside the walls of the room. Her smile arrives piecemeal from a hundred miles away. “I think you might be right, John,” she says, hollowly.

“Do you think you might do that? Marry Kanaya?”

“I’m not opposed to the idea, if she’ll have me.” She reassembles herself and turns to you, beaming happily, though it quickly fades. “Yes, John, I think I’ll bring it up. Although…”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Things are just moving a little more quickly than I expected. It’s not something you should be concerned about.”

Ah yes. Cryptically vague Roseisms. You are back on solid ground.

“Which one of you gets to wear the wedding dress?” you tease.

“Both of us, I expect.”

“Even though she’s, like, technically a boy?”

“She’s ‘technically’ a male pseudohermaphrodite, yes, but that has nothing to do with whether she’s a girl or a boy. If you don’t think she’ll jump at the chance to design her own wedding dress, you are sorely mistaken.”

“She’s a _what_?”

“A pseudoher – it means she doesn’t have female gonads, John,” Rose says in exasperation. “Ovaries, she doesn’t have ovaries. Or a uterus, either. That’s why they can’t bear children – that nook they have is just a blind-ended pouch. Technically, the mother grub is the only truly female troll.”

“Oh,” you say in your smallest voice. Suddenly the trolls’ obsession with the matriorb makes a lot more sense. You knew the mother grub was important for their reproductive cycle, but when it’s phrased in human terms the concept seems so much more concrete. What if girls started to go extinct? Wouldn’t you kind of worship the last one left, even if she was horrible and mean? Wouldn’t you jump at the chance to bring her back to life?

“Are they _all_ pseudothingies then? Because they all have boy parts and girl parts?” Rose raises her eyebrows and nods emphatically, which would be a little offensive if it wasn’t Rose. Instead, you’re pleased to be keeping up with her. Confident enough, in fact, to offer her a challenge.

“Okay then, if you’re so smart, answer this: Why are there girl trolls and boy trolls if they all have the same parts and they all like both girls and boys?” You stopped yourself from saying the word “bisexual,” which sort of stops meaning anything if everyone’s actually male.

“That, John, is a very insightful question!” Seriously, she can’t just say stuff like that, you’re going to be completely insufferable for the next forever. Your cheeks are getting sore just from grinning too hard.

Oh, except she actually has an answer, dang it. You thought for a second there you’d stumped her.

“Even if they’ve all got the same external genitalia, they still have variation between individuals. Think of gender in trolls as kind of like hair or skin color in humans. Or, likewise, their horn morphology. It doesn’t have a lot of significance beyond helping to tell them apart.”

You open your mouth, but she doesn’t give you a chance to speak. “I suppose you could argue that there’s a personality component to gender, in which case I would have to concede that there may be some weak correlations there, but nothing set in stone. The same goes for humans, really. Actually, as far as species go, the differences between trolls and humans are surprisingly minimal.”

“Rose,” you laugh, “they’re _aliens!_ They’re completely different from us!”

“They look different on the outside, I’ll give you that. But Kanaya assures me that, both physiologically and anatomically, the two species are nearly identical in all the ways that count. We share much of our genome in common. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Our universe is literally a genetic descendant of theirs, through the mechanism of frog breeding. Who’s to say we aren’t just mutated trolls?”

“What – what are you saying? Are you saying trolls and humans could _interbreed?_ ” You could just see a whole playground full of little bitty Karkat-flavored halflings with their itsy bitsy horns and needle-like baby teeth…

The circuit breakers in your mind are all being tripped at once. That can’t be good. You hope you’re not going to have permanent brain damage. Are you hyperventilating? You’re hyperventilating.

Oh. My. Goodness. Trollbabies! _Squee!!!_

“It’s theoretically possible.”

Her tone of voice puts the brakes on your admittedly corny overreaction. She sounds almost… bleak.

“Rose? Is something wrong? What’s wrong?”

She heaves a deep sigh, ruffling her bangs, the hat long forgotten. Whatever it is that’s bothering her, she’s obviously reluctant to talk about it.

Well, she is your leader leader, but you are still her friendleader, and it’s a friendleader’s job to take care of his friends, which is as good an excuse as any to push the envelope here. Can’t help anyone if they won’t tell you what the problem is.

“Tell me what is wrong,” you demand in your kindest, most friendleaderly manner.

“Oh… John….” She looks up from her lap, her eyes as sorrowful as her voice. “I’d like to think that someday Kanaya and I could have a child, I really would. But we’ve been sleeping together for over a year now, and not once has my period been even a week late. Even a miscarriage would be something, a sign that we’re the least bit compatible, but this… I want to believe it, John, but I don’t.”

Shoot. Girl stuff. This might not exactly be the time for Super Male Friendleader John Egbert to butt in, but you figure the least you can do is give her a hug, so you do, crawling over and kind of smothering her against the headboard. She pats your back awkwardly in return.

“It will all work out, Rose, I know it will. Even if you can’t have an alien baby yourself, maybe the mother grub will be able to turn out some little Ronayas, or whatever you’re going to call them.” She snorts into your hair. “Seriously, don’t worry about it! You and Kanaya have the rest of your lives together to figure this stuff out. Just because Roxy and I are rushing into parenthood doesn’t mean it has to be the status quo.”

“Yeah, I – you’re right. And maybe someone else might have more luck with interspecific conception than I have. The only other troll-human couple that I can think of consisted of _two_ individuals without a uterus, so if the problem lies with my body – or Kanaya’s – we’ll never know.” She clicks her tongue. “What we really need are some guinea pigs.”

Well, if she can joke about it, it can’t be that bad. Though you’ve known Rose to joke about really morbid stuff before, like… the bloodeldrich throes of the broodfester tongues. Which turned out to be completely real and terrifying. And then she tried to blow herself up.

She’s awfully sneaky about hiding things that other people have every right to know. Maybe you’ll keep an eye on her. It’s probably a little painful to see Roxy getting pregnant within about a month of losing her virginity when Rose doesn’t even know if she can have kids.

“Has Roxy mentioned any of her dreams to you lately?” she asks, still muffled against your shoulder. It should be safe to get off her now.

“Nuh-uh. Why?”

“Oh. Jade and I both received visitors, which is why I was wondering. Apparently she and Dave have been trying to conceive without success. Jade’s declared herself to be in charge of the perpetuation of _Homo sapiens_ as a species, which is a little ridiculous in that procreation is not a thing that needs to be organized, but whatever. She thinks it’s a late manifestation of her Space aspect. And of course Kanaya feels responsible for the well-being of the mother grub. So, the fact that neither Jade nor I have managed any progress on the reproduction front seems a little ominous, especially when we get dream messengers telling us how important it is to be thinking about these things.”

“Uh, Rose, Jade and Dave have been together about as long as Roxy and I. Give them some time.”

“That may be true, but they’ve been sexually active for considerably longer.”

“Auugh! Okay, I think I am ready to be done with this conversation. It’s been really weird for way too long. I don’t even know how we got here anymore.”

Rose laughs. “Does that mean I can go back to my knitting?”

“Please!” You take her hand, smiling back at her. She’s grown even prettier since the day you first met her face-to-face, three and a half years ago.

“Thanks for your advice, Rose. I feel a lot better about this impending fatherhood thing now. And I hope you believe me when I say that everything will work out fine with little Ronaya!”

“Are you a Seer now too?”

“Something even better! I’m an optimist.” You squeeze her hand and slip off the bed, leaving her to the comforting click of her needles with the corners of her mouth quirked thoughtfully upwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week we'll hear from Jane.
> 
> Theme for Rose: ["Tell 'Em" - Sleigh Bells](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2kJ05P-71gY)


	9. Jane: Make him understand.

Outside, the sky is boiling over, but in your kitchen everything is under control.

With the mandate of self-sufficiency comes a new way of cooking. Recipes are simpler now, meals made only of ingredients that can be found in the gardens or growing wild outside the grounds. Or whatever game Jake lugs back. Some days it’s nothing but fish, which must be stewed to mush to break down the toxins they’ve absorbed from the river. One day it was a shaggy behemoth that he found lurking in the hills. Perhaps it was biding its time, waiting for an opportunity to attack the settlement; Karkat certainly seemed to think so. But Jake found the bones of its mate in a hollow nearby. The thought of these monstrosities mourning their dead makes you unbearably sad.

The behemoth was richly marbled – more proof, if you needed it, that winter truly is coming – and lasted over a week. You’d give anything to have it on hand now; onions and herbs only go so far to make a meal without meat palatable. What you need is a bit of salt. Aradia says the ocean is only about two hundred miles south; she has promised to take Gamzee there, along with anyone else who wants to go. Maybe that will be the solution to your culinary crisis.

Roxy poses a more serious problem. She’s well into her second trimester now and still losing weight. Everyone has advice, but no one has a solution. You’re happy if she can keep a few bites of anything down for more than an hour. So much for vitamins; at this point, you’re more worried about calories. John is worried sick, sure, but it’s taking a toll on the rest of you, too. Kanaya is positively frenetic, not that it shows.

Your little clan isn’t a complete failure at independent living. The greatest coup, in your opinion, occurred the day Jake drove home a herd of wild goat-things. If you’re lucky, they will be meat and milk and hair fiber in the upcoming months, assuming you can keep them out of the gardens. The west garden is already producing, and the south garden, which Roxy and Terezi have been laboring tirelessly on, is now completely planted. So far the weather has been warm enough, but no one knows how much more autumn you’ll get. Winter is another worry entirely. How long will you hold out without grain stores? The only place suitable for raising crops is the long grassy slope between the west wall and the riverbed, but it’s not safe to work outside the walls without a crowd. Karkat proposed building watchtowers to overlook the fields, but until the big house is finished, you just don’t have the manpower for farming.

Moving day can’t come soon enough. The endless autumn storms threaten to batter down your little wooden lodge, and now a nasty squall has prevented your bold hunter from leaving the settlement for the third day in a row. Not that you’re weary of Jake’s company just yet, only the lack of game. He’s the perfect helpmeet in the kitchen: he’s quick to dance out of the way whenever you barrel across the stone floor on a one-woman mission; he’ll stir the same pot for hours, powered by the steam of his own endless chatter. If words were a river, you’d have been swept away. The conversation is lively enough when you can wrestle the reins away from him, but when he’s got his head it’s only ever about Dirk.

You know more about Dirk than you ever wanted to, his favorite hair products, his hidden freckles, his secret desire for a calfskin jacket. How he cried a single tear when he had to disassemble Squarewave for parts. How he’s never beaten Dave in a fair fight, not even once, but he keeps trying anyway. How he doesn’t really ever sleep, just kind of lies down and closes his eyes and zones out. (How do you know he’s not sleeping? you asked him. He’ll get up and run through kata in the middle of the night, he answered. He’s always done that, he’s just sleepwalking, you said. He’s not asleep, Jake insisted. He remembers.)

Thanks to Jake, you know how Dirk likes to make love.

Today is day three of the Dirk Strider Tear Parade. You keep tuning out, accidentally-on-purpose, so Jake has to ask you four times about your theory on his boyfriend’s unusual behavior. You punish him by not taking the question the least bit seriously.

“Maybe he wants to make you jealous.”

“Balderdash. He isn’t spending time with anybody else, just tinkering with the mech.”

“Maybe he’s working on your birthday present and doesn’t want you to see.”

“He already told me what he’s giving me for my birthday, and it’s not the kind of thing that needs to be built.” Jake frowns. “Except maybe at the gym.”

You roll your eyes. Thank goodness he’s watching the sauté. “Maybe he can’t stand the sight of your swollen nose.”

“My honker is mending nicely, thank you very much.”

“Now it is, but for a while there you looked like a hideous ogre. Sounded like one, too.” Jake leans over to smack your butt half-heartedly. “Maybe he’s afraid of breaking it again.” The fact that Dirk smashed Jake’s face in the throes of love is old, if still juicy, news.

Jake pauses. “That might be it.”

“No it’s not, you dummy.”

“No really, think about it. He’s afraid of his own strength. He’s just trying to protect me!”

“Okay, that’s just moronic. ‘Afraid of his own strength’? Does that sound like any Strider you know?”

Jake laughs through his nose, and the fact that he even can tells you he’s almost completely healed. Kanaya did say it would take about two months. “Not a bit. Alright, keep pitching.”

“Um. I’m running out of material here. Maybe he just doesn’t love you anymore.”

“Land sakes, Janey, don’t be ridiculous!”

You throw up your hands. “I give up. What do you think is going on, then?”

“I don’t know! All I know is that since the schnoz incident he won’t let me touch him. He’s suddenly completely asexual, flinches if I so much as try to kiss him, completely disinterested in fooling around…. And the way he looks at me, Jane – like a sad old geezer who can’t keep up with the young folks anymore. I’ve cajoled and pleaded, but he just won’t tell me what’s wrong. Maybe he can’t.” Jake slumps in place over the stove, the shallow frying pan sizzling angrily in the grip of his oven mitt. You take it away from him and try to scrape the veggies off the bottom before they burn black. The mitt stays where it is, suspended in the air over the stove, and Jake’s voice cracks. “I’m at my wit’s end here.”

“Do you feel like he’s not being honest with you?”

“Maybe.” He shrugs helplessly. “I can’t help but wonder… It’s like he’s afraid of me or something.” He stares unblinking at the shimmer of heat rising off the glowing eye. “Do you think – is it possible that I hurt him?” The thought horrifies him. He really is a softie.

“Of course you didn’t hurt him. You would never hurt Dirk. And if you did something by accident, why wouldn’t he tell you?”

Jake turns to you uncomfortably. “He’s not exactly an open book.”

“If not you, then who does he talk to about things?”

“A year ago I would have said the auto responder. Now I don’t know if he talks to anyone.”

“Maybe when he’s pretending to sleep he’s just lying there holding conversations with himself.”

He laughs, too loud. “I always wondered what it was like inside his head. Is it just a room full of Dirks? Like in Being John Malkovich?”

The reference flies over your head. “Surely he must talk to somebody besides himself.”

“Who’s left? Maybe he used to talk to Calliope, but she’s gone now. Dave? Roxy?”

“He’s more likely to chastise Roxy than pour his heart out to her. And I don’t know if I’ve ever actually seen him talk to Dave. I think they communicate by some kind of sibling telepathy.” Above, the rain thrashes the roof of the kitchen like it’s personal.

He snaps his fingers. “I’ve got it! They must blink to each other in Morse Code.”

“That makes no frigging sense, Jake. They can’t even see each other’s eyes with those glasses on. My money’s on secret messages encoded in their rhymes.”

Jake nods sagely. “You’ve cracked another one, Miss Crocker.” He tips his imaginary hat in salute, launching you into a fit of the giggles. The next thing you know he’s wrapping his arms around you, pressing his cheek against yours. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he says, combing his hand through your short, curly hair. You wish you could reach inside your chest and throttle your heart until it stops fluttering. Either that, or stroke his heart until it jumps and shivers too. That would be okay.

Jake inhales sharply against your chest. He’s getting your cheek wet. “I just want to hold him. Why won’t he let me hold him?” The words come out broken.

“Shhh,” you say, pulling him closer, angling your face up to his. It’s not as far away as it used to be. You’ve grown since coming to this strange place. “Shhh,” you say to the lost boy. “I’m right here. Hold _me_.” He leans his forehead against yours, glasses almost touching. A droplet runs along the bottom edge of his lens and drips onto your nose.

He’s so close, but so far away. You’re struck with the absurdity of it. You’ll never take Dirk’s place in his heart, so why is he clinging to you like you’re all that he has in this world? You need to wake him up, bring him to the present moment. You need to slap him sensible and jar the clues loose – he’s got them, you know they’re in there, goddammit, he just files them away where they can’t disturb the iron-clad snowglobe that is Jake’s Reality. You need to make him understand what he’s doing, what he does to you, when he hands you this fetid friendzone on a golden platter like it’s a twelve course meal. You need to – kiss him.

So you do.

His eyes snap open. You freeze, lips on his, transfixed by his watery green gaze. The moment lasts far too long.

You realize he’s panting. Panicking. You want to pull away, but his fingers are clenching in your hair, his shoulders knotted, his arms the locked iron bars that hold you down in the rollercoaster. You’re poised on top of the world, and from here you should be able to see _everything_ , but your eyes are glued to the track and the way it plunges down and away toward its event horizon, and your breath won’t come.

Empires rise and fall before he allows himself to reciprocate. When he does, it’s like he never hesitated at all: he pries open your mouth to devour you tenderly; you surrender to his intensity without resistance. This is the itch you were desperate to scratch, and it hurts so good, like ripping off a scab. You feel caught up in the moment – the ride is in motion and you can’t be held responsible for what happens next. Maybe that’s why your hand slips between his legs to touch him through his clothes.

He doesn’t tell you yes. He doesn’t tell you no. He simply wakens under your caress, moaning when you pull away, so you keep coming back. Soon you’re rubbing him fully erect, marveling at the feel of him filling at your command. You practically yank down his shorts so you can fondle him through the thin layer of his boxers, squeezing him in your fist, running your nails from root to tip and brushing lightly at the wet spot where the fabric folds over the head. He’s quaking, his chest straining against the binding circle of your arm. The man is literally trying to eat your face, and by literally you mean figuratively. He shoves between your legs and grinds upward, insistently, and you cry out because it feels so natural and _right_. You realize that this is really happening, this is going to happen right here in the kitchen, with your apron on and everything.

He lets you expose him, reclining blindly into a seat at the breakfast table. You slide off your panties and straddle his hips, one knee resting on the bench, the other leg trailing down to brace yourself against the flagstones. The end of him brushes your wet lips as you settle over him, and you’re not sure who you’re trying to tease, but it has the desired effect either way. It might as well be the end of you too.

Whatever doubts he has are imprisoned in his heart, where they belong. Your skirt and your apron are negligible obstacles. You answer the voice inside you that’s screaming to be filled, and he rises to meet you with a heavy sigh.

For a little while the only sound is the rustle of your apron hem against the bench. You and Jake are each lost in your own world, he with his head thrown back, staring unblinking at the ceiling with his lips just parted. You, curled against his chest, his hand on your lower back, rotating your hips against him in a slow grind. Breathing the cooking smells and the stench of hot metal. Milking the moment for every drop of sensation it can provide.

“Janey. You wanted this.” His voice sounds thick, like his tongue is too big for his mouth. You nod into his chest, feeling his muscles bunch under your cheek as he moves his hands to your waist. He pushes you down against him as his pelvis strains upward. A little sound escapes your mouth. He fills you again and again, and it hurts, you’re torn and bleeding, but somehow he’s stroking you the way your fingers _can’t_ , and you bite at him through his shirt to keep yourself from shouting his name.

“Fuck me,” he stammers, breathless, “fuck me, fuck me, fuck…” and on and on into a wordless mush of sounds. The force of your coupling builds like a cresting wave, and each time he thrusts into you he pushes you closer to your release, so close you can’t stop it, and you feel yourself clenching tight around him, pulsing hard, all the way down to a weak quiver. When it passes, you’re left clinging to each other, trembling. Your thighs feel like banners without a breeze, limp and wilting. Jake’s chest heaves against yours. You rest your temple on his shoulder, wondering how you’re going to keep his spunk from running down your leg when he pulls out.

He helps you up, setting his clothes aright as you lean against his arm for balance. When he’s done with himself he turns to you, straightening your apron while he studies your face.

“What happens now?” you ask, hoping your eyes are saying the things you can’t bear to voice. You press your legs together to relieve the stinging burn in your groin. His eyes give nothing away.

“I don’t know, Janey.” His restless hands still, one finger trapped under the strap of the apron where he was working to free the ruffled edge. Slowly, he kisses your cheeks, one then the other, turning your chin with a cupped hand.

Finally he speaks. “I wanted it too, I want you, but I’m a man spoken for. You understand, don’t you?” You shake your head, searching his eyes for a different answer. “I wanted it too, Jane, but not like this.”

The word “no” escapes your mouth, but it’s small and half-formed and alone, and you’re not sure he even hears it over the pounding rain. Turning away, he walks out the door, shoving his hands into his pockets and huddling against the drench, picking his way down the hill to the lodge.

In a moment, he’s soaked through, looking as small as you feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long John chapter next week.
> 
> Theme for Jake and Jane: ["Judy and the Dream of Horses" - Belle and Sebastian](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jicBBk4Sgxs)


	10. John: Confer with your cohorts.

“I’m going to start drawing the calendar while you guys think up some new month names,” Jade announces perfunctorily, rifling through her art box. It’s arranged in strata, with markers and pieces of chalk comingling over a bedrock of broken crayons. “We need fifteen good ones, so you better get cracking!”

“I don’t see why we can’t split the year twelve ways and just use the names we had before,” Dave says. “The old way made perfect sense.”

Dave and Aradia exchange glances, but she’s not his ally in this. You wave her over to sit next to you. Between the two of you, you’re pretty sure you can come up with a pretty rockin’ list of potential names. You hand her your notepad, which you’ve titled “Month Ideas,” with a blank for number 1 at the top.

“Nuh-uh!” Jade rounds on Dave, her hands on her hips. “They have to be thirty-two days long, so we’ll need more than twelve. Aren’t months supposed to follow the lunar cycle?”

“Are they? Then why’d we have thirty-one day months back on Earth?” Dave counters reasonably. “There’s only twenty-nine days from one full moon to the next.”

Jade stops to do the math. “I guess we just wanted a year to have an even number of months.”

“Exactly.”

“But we still had twelve because of the moon!” she insists.

Dave sighs, but he’s smiling, an expression that’s become more frequent since he and Jade have been together. It’s a far cry from the I-will-shatter-if-I-smile Strider you used to know. Jade’s sparkling demeanor is infectious, and he loves indulging her, even when all she wants is a devil’s advocate. You think that, secretly, he could care less what the new calendar looks like.

“Babe, there were twelve months for the same reason we have twenty-four hours in a day and sixty seconds in a minute. It divides into thirds and quarters and whatever else you want it to. It’s simple arithmetic.”

“Three hundred and sixty degrees in a circle,” she says.

Dave nods with satisfaction. “See? Perfect sense.”

“What did you use on Alternia, Karkat?” Jade sings over her shoulder. Is she really fluttering her eyelashes? Your sister is absolutely incorrigible.

“Lunar cycle,” Karkat replies automatically. He repays Jade’s grateful look with a soft expression.

“Eyes to the front, soldier,” Dave says, raising his eyebrows. Jade, settling on the floor with a marker in hand, manages to look guilty and defiant at once. Karkat just looks grumpy.

“What are we going to do with the four days left over?” asks Aradia. You motion for her to show you the list. She’s colored in the circles, numbered all the way down the page in two columns, and added an ornate border of jungle vines to the margins – but number 1 is still depressingly blank. She gives you an apologetic wince.

You frown disapprovingly. “We haven’t even agreed on how many months to make yet!”

“There will be four extra days whether we have twelve months or fifteen,” Aradia murmurs privately, and you mouth “oh” back. Maybe you should focus on your own job and leave the calendar talk to the professionals.

Number 1. You put the pen to paper, hoping it will start writing of its own accord.

“Holidays,” Dave answers his fellow Time Bandit belatedly. Jade squeals and clutches his leg, throwing him off balance. He grips the edge of the card table to steady himself.

“Solstices and equinoxes?” Aradia throws back. Jade’s practically wiggling with excitement, scrambling across the butcher paper, drawing boxes.

Her enthusiastic sketching slows to a halt as she struggles to place the first solstice. They’re going to fall haphazardly on different days of the month no matter where she starts. He just watches her smugly. Can you watch someone smugly? Well, anyway, Dave can.

Finally Jade looks up. “Maaaybe we should have twelve months,” she concedes. Then a stubborn look comes over her face, and she adds, “But we still need to come up with new names! Using Earth months isn’t fair to the trolls.”

You sigh. The piece of paper in front of you reads “1. Cosby?” with four lines through it. Leaning over your lap, Aradia shakes her head worriedly, the tip of her ram’s horn catching on your sleeve.

Dave cocks his head, considering Jade’s compromise. “If you give me a kiss,” he stipulates. She complies eagerly, hopping to her feet and wrapping her arms around his neck; the impact squeezes an _oomph_ from him and knocks his sunglasses sideways. Karkat watches the silhouette they make – a Grecian column that bends without splitting as they dip – with an indefinable look in his eyes.

She releases the kiss and lets her head fall back, her glance drifting from Dave’s face to Karkat’s. His shaded eyes follow hers, so the two of them are just hanging there, floating in the moment, and Karkat doesn’t know what to do with himself. He squirms under their gaze while Jade’s upside-down and red-faced laughter trails down to nothing, her throat almost painfully exposed. Dave’s face tightens.

“Well, that’s awkward,” Aradia says under her breath, just as he briskly tugs Jade upright. She settles her glasses on the bridge of her nose and gets back to work without looking at either of her… um… boyfriends.

“Let’s see, now… forty days in a month… do we want to keep the seven day week?” Dave looks to Aradia without answering Jade.

“Eight,” Karkat suggests. Dave doesn’t acknowledge him.

“Excuse me,” you say politely, scooting to the edge of your seat.

“For fuck’s sake, put your hand down, Egbert. This isn’t grade school.” There’s no smile for you – Dave’s blank-faced mask says he already exceeded his quota today – but his drawl is affectionately rough, the tone one usually reserves for reprimanding the cat.

“If the week is eight days long, does that mean we get a three-day weekend?”

Karkat, Aradia, and Jade exchange startled glances. “Yes,” they chorus.

“There’s your answer,” Dave says.

Your smile stretches into a cheshire grin. “Great! Carry on.”

Jade finishes her boxes. “I’m putting the weekend at the beginning of the week so we can sleep in after a holiday. We’ll call the extra day Museday.”

“Okay,” Dave replies, bemused. You’re not sure you understand her logic either, but she sounds like she knows what she’s doing, and Roxy will be happy to know that her friend Calliope is being commemorated in the official calendar.

“Oh, I see. The leftover days are off to the side because they’re not days of the week,” Karkat says, impressed.

“Yep! See, this way the month always ends on a Friday!” chirps Jade. “Okay, this one’s New Year’s Day.”

“Why is New Year’s in the summertime?” you ask, bewildered. “Isn’t that box supposed to be the summer solstice?”

“We’re south of the equator, silly! The seasons are backwards here,” Jade explains patiently. “Besides, won’t it be nice to have New Year’s on the longest day of the year? It’ll be easier to stay up!”

“I guess,” you say doubtfully. “But I’m not celebrating Christmas in the summer.”

“Okay,” she says, penciling in Christmas on the first day of winter. “What about the spring equinox?”

“Winter Wrap-up,” Dirk puts in before anyone else can answer. He’s been so quiet you forgot he was here, reading in the corner under the window.

“What the fuck is Winter Wrap-up?” Dave says. His brother, who’s gone back to listening to his music, ignores him. “Oh hell, it’s a pony thing, isn’t it.” Dave covers his eyes. “For the love of god, Jade, don’t put that on the calendar.”

From the floor: “Too late!” Aradia giggles.

There’s silence for a moment, then Karkat says, “Can we make this one Remembrance Day?” He toes the square designating the fall equinox.

“Of course we can,” answers Jade, scurrying over to write it in.

And just like that, all of the boxes are filled. “Only four holidays?” you complain mournfully.

“We can make every day a holiday if we want,” Jade reassures you. “It’s just that these ones are special because they happen between months instead of in the middle.”

“Oh! Alright then. What holidays do we want?”

“Quadrantide,” Karkat supplies immediately.

“What’s that?”

“It’s like your human Valentine’s Day, but way more complicated.”

“Perfect!” Jade says, scratching down a note, and she’s obviously just as keen to master the complexity of troll V-day as she is about the prospect of candy and flowers. ”What else?”

“I like the idea of dressing up in costumes for Halloween,” says Aradia.

“May the Fourth, Thanksgiving, April Fools, International Talk Like a Pirate Day, National Conspiracy Day…” you list off on your fingers. (“Slow down!” grouses Jade, at the same time that Aradia says, “Ooh, pirates!”)

“What’s National Conspiracy Day?” Dave interrupts, giving Jade a chance to catch up.

“That’s when you black out the windows and put on an X-Files marathon.”

Jade writes in Pi Day and Earth Day for herself. “Are we missing anything important, sweetie?”

Dave surveys the list critically. “MLK Day?”

Jade dutifully copies it down. “We can ask around and see if anyone wants to add anything, but I think this is a good start.”

“What are we going to do about birthdays?” you ask.

“Oh! Birthdays are holidays too!” She begins filling in all thirteen names, her handwriting getting smaller and smaller as she tries to cram them in at the edge of the sheet.

Dave exhales forcefully. “We have a couple of choices. We could celebrate every three hundred and sixty-five days, which would be obnoxious as all fuck.” Uh, yeah, sounds like it. “We could figure out when our birthday corresponds to this year, and have it on that date from now on. Or we could just give up on them altogether.” Listening to him rattle off options, Jade’s making a pout that would be appropriate at a funeral. Karkat squats to comfort her, throwing an annoyed look at Dave’s back.

“Why can’t we keep our old birthdays? Since we have twelve months anyway,” you say as Rose comes in, tapping across the floorboards in low heels. Jade’s ears prick up at the suggestion.

“Half of them will come right after Christmas,” he replies. “We’ll all be partied out.” (“Not _me!_ ” your sister says, affronted.)

“How about you pick whatever day you want and stop fussing about it,” proposes Rose.

“Yo, Dirk!“ he calls across the room.

“Summer, bro.”

“Summer it is,” Dave repeats with relish.

Rose kneels next to Jade, showing her the open page in her diary. “I have July 18th marked as the summer solstice, and that was one hundred and seventy-eight days ago, which means today is…” She traces her finger down the columns, mouthing multiples of eight. “Here,” she says, tapping a square. “October 17th, by the new calendar.”

“We decided to change the month names,” Jade informs her friend. “What did you two come up with for October?”

When either of you fail to answer, Rose plucks the notepad out of your lap. She returns it to you just as quickly, accompanied by two words: “Twelve aspects.”

“Oh, for crying out loud!” You are _fuming_.

Aradia pats your shoulder kindly. “We can’t all be as bright as Rose, you know.” Dave gives a humorless chuckle.

Rose has already moved on to Jade’s holiday list. “We should have Day of the Dead on here,” she muses, and Aradia agrees wholeheartedly. “Also, I expect we’ll want to commemorate the defeat of Lord English.” Jade moves around the corner of the butcher paper to write Rose’s suggestions in sideways, then she jumps up, almost bowling Karkat over.

“I need to talk to Jake about our birthday! I’ll be right back,” she announces over her shoulder.

“He was in the garden,” Dirk calls after her. “Feeling sorry for himself.”

Flashstepping to the door, Dave hauls Karkat back into the room by the collar, sending him sprawling. “Stay your ass put or I will nail you to the floor.”

Karkat sits up, knuckling the shoulder he landed on. “Who do you think you are, my lusus?” he mutters acerbically.

“I will be your fucking shadow if that’s what it takes to keep you in line. Now put on your man pants and help me finish this thing.”

“What are you afraid of, you seeping sack of offal?” Karkat sneers, stopping short an inch from Dave’s nose. Dave holds his ground. “Is your pretty wingbeast going to fly away?”

The sight of your two best friends squaring off causes inappropriate, involuntary laughter to bubble up through your chest and into your throat, and you double over, wheezing. They peer at you with one accusatory finger hovering in the air between them.

“What on earth is so funny, John?” asks Rose.

“Look at them! Like bizarro twins!” you rasp. The effort sends you into a coughing fit.

Rose covers her mouth with one dainty hand. “Oh my gosh, you’re right,” she laughs incredulously. “Same height and build and everything. We need to get you some ironic eyewear, Karkat.” Dave massages his temple, his elbow resting on one folded arm.

“They’ll be identical just as soon as his eyes – finish – changing,” you choke out. Dave’s cheek twitches; Karkat throws up his hands with a roar of frustration.

“Oh man. I have to get some water, I’m dying over here.” You stumble out the door, clutching your midsection and thinking to yourself, cheerfully, _crisis averted_.

* * *

You catch up to Jade at the well. Before you ask, she shakes her head.

“Maybe he went hunting,” you say uncertainly. The bucket hits the surface of the water with a redoubled splash.

“Maybe he’s mooning down by the river,” she replies. “Maybe he’s in front of his mirror, practicing breaking hearts.” She squints down the well shaft like the bucket might come back up brimming with answers. “Now I understand why my grandpa only ever brought dolls home with him for dinner. No real girl would put up with that idiot!”

“How’s Jane doing?”

Jade shrugs. “All right, I guess. She’s with Roxy. She’s more resilient than I gave her credit for.” In the few weeks since her friendship with Jake apparently exploded, Jane has developed a mama bear attitude toward Roxy and her unborn child. She’s even managed to drive you away a few times. You’ve heard Dave wonder if she was planning to snatch the kid and go on the lam.

“She’s got baby fever just like the rest of us.”

“What is that supposed to mean? Baby fever?” She coyly declines to elaborate. “No, stop that. Tell me.”

“I had a dream about a girl who wanted me to have a baby,” says Jade quietly. “I went to Rose about it and she said she had dreamed it too. But she doesn’t think she can have a baby, and I don’t know if I can either.” Her lip trembles.

“Why do you say that?” Oh, man, you hope she’s not going to start crying. You’re such a sucker for tears. Something about sobbing girls makes you want to wrap them up in a cocoon and put them somewhere dark and quiet. And safe! Safe too. Wow, that sounded really sinister before you added the last part.

“Because Dave and I have been trying for ages!” she retorts in a whispered wail. “Months and months!”

“Is that why you started messing around with Karkat? Because you can’t have kids with Dave?” You, sir, are the king of tact.

“ _What?_ ” Jade yelps, then mutes herself, checking over her shoulder for eavesdroppers. “No, what, I don’t know what you’re talking about –“

“Jade.”

“– Karkat’s my friend, we’re just friends is all –“

“He’s my friend too, but so is Dave!“

“He’s been helping me plan my greenhouse, why would you think we were doing anything else?” she whimpers.

“ _You’re not fooling anyone!_ ” you hiss at her. “Dave least of all.” She gulps. “I don’t understand why you would pull a stunt like this, Jade. It’s totally unlike you! I thought you loved him.”

“I doooo!” she hiccups. “I love Dave with all my heart.”

“Then why –“

“And Kar. Kar too.”

“Goddammit, Jade!” She flinches back from you, three quarters of a second from completely losing it; the only thing that’s holding her together is the leash on your temper. You try to rein it in, holding your breath and counting, and by the time you hit six your eyes are clear and you can continue more evenly. “You guys are three of my best friends. I just don’t want anyone to get hurt, okay?”

“I thought I knew what I was doing,” Jade says. “But they couldn’t share Terezi, could they? Why did I think they could share me?” She clutches your arm tearfully. “Please, please don’t say anything to Dave, to either of them, everything’s balanced on the head of a pin and I’m afraid of what will happen when it comes crashing down, John…” She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m afraid.”

“I’m telling you, he already knows!”

“I know! I know. But if you go to him and say, ‘Gosh Dave, did you know Karkat Vantas is screwing your girlfriend,’ what do you think is going to happen? Do you think they’re going to hash it out like bros? No!” She twists hanks of your shirt into two damp handles, her ears rotated outward a quarter turn, and her whisper sounds like despair. “John, if that happens, only one of them will walk away from it.”

You have a hard time imagining Dave trying to kill anyone – anyone who didn’t deserve it – but in this case, Karkat just might qualify. Even if Jade was the instigator, he should have still said no, damn it. Back on the meteor, at least he had the decency to wait until Terezi and Dave were broken up before making his move. Your social pool is too small for splashing around in when every ripple makes a tidal wave.

(Of course she started it – Jade knows exactly what effect she has on people, and she exploits it shamelessly to get what she wants. She has every single one of you trained to shower her with attention on demand, just like a family pet. It was always funny before now! But it was always harmless before, too.)

“I’ll tell him everything, I promise, just give me some time. I’ll think of something. I can handle this, I can fix it, I can….” The storm finally hits, shaking her like a leaf.

“She said it would be okay,” she sobs. You rub her shoulder, letting her bawl it out into your shirt. After a few minutes the weeping ends in sniffles and you feel like it might be prudent to change the subject before she starts up again.

“So, ah. In other news, I think I’m gonna ask Roxy to marry me.”

“Oh, John, that’s great,” she says stuffily. You pull off your shirt for her to blow her nose on. It’s not like it’s not already lousy with snot.

“You need a ring.” She produces an unladylike honk. “And moonlight.”

“Got it covered.” You show her the ring you dug out of the sand, what seems like ages ago. “And moonlight is easy to come by, around here.”

“Perfect! Please, please say you’ll let me plan the wedding. We can have it in the spring – with, oh!, cherry blossoms – yes! Kanaya would love to make the dress –“

“I haven’t even proposed yet,” you say faintly. “I’m supposed to talk to Dirk first.”

“What’s the holdup?”

“Dude, he’s Dave’s bro. I’ve heard horror stories about the guy.”

“You big weenie, you’re like half a foot taller than he is!” (“Uh, not quite.”) “Besides, Dave’s real brother died in the game, remember? And Bro wasn’t all that bad, Dave misses him a bunch. Dirk is more like… Dave’s evil twin.”

“’Evil’ being the operative word.”

She punches you in the arm. “You know what I mean.”

“Hit me again.” The next attempt is marginally harder. “That was good, I almost felt that one,” you tease her.

She shrieks, harrying you all the way back inside with your own nasty tee shirt.

* * *

At dinnertime, you bring a tray by Roxy’s room. Jane says your girlfriend’s tired and doesn’t want to see you, but at least she takes the food before shutting the door in your face.

* * *

“Hey, Dirk,” you say, trying to sound casual. He’s propped up against a pillow at the head of the bed in a black wifebeater and boxers. Arranged on plank shelves overhead are two dozen texts, mostly yellowed history books and robotics manuals; an automaton’s lifeless head; and four or five of the pervy smuppets that haunt Dave’s dreams, including a complete set of SBaHJ plushes.

It’s honestly not as bad as you were expecting. At least he doesn’t sleep with them. More disturbing is Kanaya’s dress form in the corner, pinned with patterns that go all the way to the floor, and the awl and brutal-looking needles weighting down the papers on his desk. This must be what he needed the leather for – the atrocious stink of his makeshift tannery still lingers outside. Other than that, the only projects he seems to be working on at the moment are mechanical in nature, judging by his sketchpad.

Glancing up from a book, Dirk pulls out his earbuds and sets them down. “Hey yourself, hot stuff,” he says, flipping his hair out of his face. Without either a hat or hair gel he looks a little ridiculous, like a mountain man in need of a hot shower. His roots are growing in dirty blond now that autumn’s set in and the sun isn’t quite as intense.

“Shut the door.” You obey, resisting the urge to take flight. Suddenly the butterflies in your stomach have mutated into angry gerbils.

“Hang tight for a second, I’m almost at the end of the paragraph.”

You hazard a stab at conversation. “So, uh, what was that you were listening to?”

“Daft Punk. Dave gave me their live album.” Daft who what now?

He marks his place with a finger and sits up, motioning for you to turn around. “Let me have a look at you.”

You realize with a dawning sense of horror that you committed a critical tactical error: you forgot to put on a shirt. “I don’t know what you think I’m here for, but it’s not that!”

“Don’t blush, sweetheart, it spoils the illusion.”

Of course. ‘The illusion’ being that you’re Jake. You couldn’t have made a more perfectly anime entrance into their soap opera bromance if it was In The Script. You try crossing your arms for coverage, but it just makes you feel defensive and insecure, and kind of shows off your guns too. You quickly put them back down.

“I want to ask you something about Roxy.”

“You mispronounced ‘I need your hands on my body,’” he quips.

Maybe try snark? “I want you, I need you, oh baby, oh baby,” you deadpan, trying your best to channel Julia Stiles.

Dirk just clicks his tongue. “More feeling.”

“Oh my god! That’s it, I’m out of here.”

“Wait, damn you!” He swings his legs over the edge of the bed. “Tell me what you want.”

“No, you creeper!” you shout in exasperation. “I didn’t come here to get hit on!”

Dirk’s expression of hurt innocence is a dead ringer for Harrison Ford’s. “You barge into my bedroom half-dressed, what am I supposed to think?”

Maybe that’s a reasonable explanation in his fucked-up head, but it’s not an excuse for making people uncomfortable. You’re not sure if he even knows he’s doing it. “Dude, I didn’t think I needed to put armor on just to come and talk to you.”

He hops off the bed to rummage through the top drawer of his dresser. Muttering under his breath, he tosses a shirt at you; the only word you catch is “distracting.” You pull it on with a sense of relief. It’s got a picture of a blue cartoon pony.

Dave totally has Dirk’s number, you realize. The thought is strangely comforting.

“I came to see if you would be cool with me marrying Roxy.”

“Have you asked her yet?” Dirk asks, eyebrows hiked over the top of his angular shades. You shake your head.

“Good. Don’t.”

Your face falls. “Not you too. Does everyone think I’m a monster?” Jane, whether in grief over Roxy’s illness or displaced rage over Jake’s betrayal, is making it clear that she holds you at fault for the difficult pregnancy. Jake, the stone blind idiot, has assumed the mantle of Roxy’s champion, perhaps in an effort to win back Jane’s favor.  Between them they’re turning the sickroom into a wasp’s nest.

“I don’t think you’re a monster, and Roxy doesn’t either, no matter what drivel she’s been spouting. She’s tired, hungry, and sad, but most of all, she’s scared. She’s afraid she won’t survive the pregnancy, or that she’s going to miscarry and you won’t love her any more – which, in her mind, would be even worse.” Dirk begins to turn down the bed, his back to you. “If you propose now, she’ll think you’re just doing it out of guilt, and she’ll refuse because she doesn’t want you to regret it later.”

“I don’t understand. It sounds like the perfect time to ask her to marry me. Show her how much I love her – don’t you think?”

“She can use all the love and support she can get. Hormones are the enemy, and Roxy’s body is the battleground,” he says dryly. “But I’m telling you, Egbert, if you ask her to marry you right now she’s going to say no.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve known her about twenty times longer than you, practically ever since you dropped us on our godforsaken fucking planet, for one thing. And because I’ve had the privilege of listening to her delirious babbling this past week, which I gather you haven’t. She’s in a bad place. Trust me.” He gets in bed, setting his glasses on the book, and pulls the covers up. “Turn off the light on your way out,” he tells the wall.

“Good night, Dirk,” you say sadly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week we'll hear from Jane. See you then!
> 
> Theme for Dave and Jade: ["We Can Make the World Stop" - Glitch Mob](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H-k_Eg7zXuc)


	11. Jane: Be the mama bear.

Kanaya straightens up from Roxy’s bulging abdomen, rubbing her ear. “Well, the baby is alive.”

“Did you hear a heartbeat this time?” you ask.

“Maybe a heartbeat, maybe gas, who knows? But the little wiggler kicked me, so I assume everything is going fine.” A moue mars her pretty porcelain face, set off by two sharp fangs that silhouette themselves against her black lipstick.

It’s a mad world when the family doctor is not only an alien, but a vampire too. Not that anyone minds. Kanaya has proven her worth and self-control many times over. It’s thanks to her knowledge and skill that Roxy is soft around the edges again. For most of the second trimester, she looked like nothing so much as a withered cancer patient, the tumor in her belly growing steadily more prominent as it drained life from the rest of her body. Even now, Kanaya’s treatments are the only thing keeping the nausea at bay so she can get the nutrition she needs to maintain the pregnancy. Without the troll’s ministrations the baby would have certainly been lost.

You smooth back the hair from Roxy’s forehead. “How are you feeling, sweetie?”

Roxy doesn’t open her eyes. “I dreamed that it was a monster,” she says, her voice gravelly. Kanaya stands to fetch some water. “It was a horror with eight slimy tentacles, like an octopus, and it fought to get out of me. When you laid it in my arms it wrapped around my throat and strangled me.” Her eyelashes – as pale as the rest of her hair, without mascara – flutter as she seeks your face. Her earnest expression is an appeal for credence. “This baby is going to kill me, Jane.”

“No, no, Roxy, no. We won’t let anything happen to you. Everything will be okay, you’ll see.” This isn’t the first time she’s talked about death, but the idea that the baby will be malformed is new. Roxy’s dreams have been so lucid lately that she has trouble separating the real from the imaginary.

Her lips move, her voice a bare breath. You lean close to hear: “Somebody at the door.” You swivel to investigate; it’s John, escorted by Kanaya, a pitcher of water cradled in her arms.

“Go away, she’s sleeping,” you tell him dismissively. This is no time for a disruption.

“Am not,” Roxy retorts, louder this time. She struggles to sit up as you look at her in surprise. Just yesterday she was cursing him for the umpteenth time for inflicting this misery on her – but now, at the sight of her boyfriend, she’s more animated than she’s been in weeks. “Please let him in,” she says.

“He just wants to talk,” says Kanaya, and just like that, you’re overruled. The troll moves into the room, John following, skirting you as well as the furniture allows – and all the while eying you as though he thinks he might need to defend himself.

“Where have you been?” Roxy asks. John settles himself on the edge of the bed, pecking her cheek on the way down. She grips his hand with both of hers, the skin over her knuckles taut and pale.

“I was under the impression you didn’t want to see me,” he replies placidly, shooting you a glance from the corner of his eye. “Your hands are so cold, sweetie.” He breathes gently on her hands and blankets them with his own.

“My circulation is crap because the baby’s moving lower in my belly. Do you wanna feel?” She presses the flats of his hands against her ripening abdomen.

“You have an outie!” he exclaims, laughing, spreading his fingers across her stomach. “How are you feeling? You look so much better than you did on moving day.”

“Better today. It’s a lot warmer in here than it was in the lodge.”

“It’s nice out, do you want to go for a walk?” He looks at Kanaya. “Exercise would be good, right?”

“It’s time for her treatment,” you intercede. You’re not letting Roxy go wandering around the grounds unsupervised, not in her condition. Even if she is feeling better.

Kanaya turns to the cabinet, pulling out a slim paper package and a jar of wet cotton balls.

“Treatment?” John’s eyebrows furrow. “I thought she couldn’t have any medicine.”

“Not medicine,” Roxy corrects, exposing the inside of her forearm for Kanaya to scrub. The doctor’s-office-smell of rubbing alcohol wafts over to you on a draft. “Acupuncture.”

“ _What?_ ” John watches the tip of the hair-thin needle approach the waxen skin of Roxy’s arm with sheer horror. “Don’t you need, like, special training for that? Oh god,” he says, hiding his eyes as Kanaya positions the needle two inches from the crease of the wrist. She stops advancing when Roxy hisses, wiggling her fingers.

“Is it over?” asks John faintly.

“I’ll come back to check on it in ten minutes,” Kanaya tells her patient. “Drink your water, please.” She motions to the cup on the bedside table.

John uncovers his face, eyeing the pin jutting out of Roxy’s arm like it’s a venomous snake. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Not once it’s in. It just makes my fingertips numb.”

“It looks dangerous. I don’t like it.” He turns to you, angry but joking, the way he does. “She’s a quack, isn’t she? How are you okay with this?”

“That ‘quack’ is the only reason your baby is still alive,” you tell him coldly. “Which you would know if you cared enough to ask.”

He pauses at your tone. “I’ll be right back, Roxy,” he says, his narrowed eyes growing icy and all trace of levity evaporating, and you realize you’ve made a mistake. He steers you out of the room with a painful grip on your upper arm. As tall as you are, he still looms a head taller, and every inch of him radiates threat.

“The only reason I haven’t been with her every waking second is because of you,” he menaces low.

Keep it together, Jane. “She was very sick. She needed quiet rest. And she didn’t want to see you, she didn’t want to see anybody.”

He shakes you by the arm, making your teeth click shut on the end of the sentence. “She’s feeling better now, and you still tried to turn me away. Tell me the truth! Why are you keeping me away from her?” His fingers dig pale graves that will fill with purple in an hour.

“You made her like this! I didn’t want – I didn’t want –“

“Don’t you dare pretend you’re doing this to protect her!” he says, his raised voice echoing down the empty hall. “Who are you trying to punish? Me? Roxy?” His finger drives hard into your breastbone.

“Myself.” The word slips out unbidden, but the chill pervading your heart tells you the truth of it. “I’m punishing myself.” All these long nights, you’ve held Roxy’s hand when she couldn’t sleep, too dry to cry, listening to her count her demons and wondering how it had come to this. Some of the things she talked about went back _years_. She wasn’t even ten yet the first time she tried to kill herself, and you never even knew she had a problem. This is your purgatory, trapped in a cell with your own criminal failure for company. You don’t deserve a lover. You don’t deserve a brother. You don’t deserve a best friend, not until you can fix this.

John searches your face, the anger so quickly replaced with pity. “What did he do to you, Jane? Just tell me. I’ll make it right.”

He doesn’t understand. He thinks this is about Jake. Well, it is, but your blunder in the kitchen pales in comparison to your complicity in Roxy’s plight. “He didn’t do anything. I did it. It was my mistake.”

“No, Janey, you can’t blame yourself. If he hurt you – if he forced you…“

You shake your head violently. “Never, never.”

“Jane. Look at me. I love you. _Quit this._ ” You don’t answer. What are you supposed to tell him? That you slept with a wishy-washy idiot and thought that would somehow make everything better? Jake’s been growing more and more desperate to make it up to you, but all you want is for him to leave you alone to your suffering, and most of all, to _stay away from Roxy_. He’s been indulging her fatalism and self-pity, her suicidal thoughts. He’s not helping the situation at all – he’s encouraging her, he’s making it worse.

“I will wrestle the answer out of him if I can’t get it from you,” John says.

Your heart turns to ice. One more blow and it might shatter. “No! Please! Please, stay away from him. He’s crazy, all twisted up inside. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

John’s face shuts. “You poisoned him against me.”

“No, John, he poisoned himself! When it was so dark – when we thought Roxy would miscarry for certain, she was just belly and bones – she asked for a drink. She said the alcohol didn’t matter because she was going to die anyway. She said –“ You gulp. “She was lying there, looking like death, and she said the worst thing about having a baby is that she can’t get away from it, from her own body. She begged Jake to kill her. To help her escape.” Your voice fractures raggedly.

Running away is the only thing Roxy thinks she’s good at. When she was little, she would lose herself in her fantasy worlds, in her books and video games. As she got older, she turned to alcohol to forget the loneliness of her bleak and empty world. Her aspect – Void – was supposed to be extremely versatile, far more than yours, but absconding was all she ever used it for. Roxy’s whole life has been about escapism. How did it take you so long to figure out why? All she wants is not to hurt anymore.

John looks like his heart is breaking. Yours broke that day too, the day that your best friend hit rock bottom, the day that Jake vowed to make John pay for Roxy’s pain. Did he think hurting your brother would make you forgive him? Did he think Roxy would thank him for assailing the father of her child? No, probably not. That’s the problem with Jake. He just doesn’t _think_.

That, and he’s too damn pretty for his own good.

“I’ve been trying to keep him out of here ever since, both for Roxy and… for myself. But all this uselessness and frustration is just building up inside of him. Please, John, don’t give him a reason to start a fight.”

“But what if I want to kick his ass? He kind of deserves it. For what he’s put you through, if nothing else,” John says. He studies your face for a moment while you return the favor. It’s like looking into a funhouse mirror. He looks more like your dad every day – all he needs are laugh lines. You couldn’t bear the thought of losing him too.

“Please… He’s armed, John! I don’t trust him not to do something stupid.”

“If you want me to stay away from him, I will, but I wish you’d give me some credit. Do you really think he would hurt me? Do you really think he _can_?” Overconfidence becomes him. His class lets him pull off deus ex machina miracles like nobody’s business. Well, you’re a miracle worker too, just a different kind.

John tucks a curl behind your ear, smiling. “Your hair’s getting so long! Maybe if Roxy’s feeling better she’ll give you a haircut.”

You laugh. “God no! That’s what got us into this mess. He couldn’t keep his eyes off me.” John chuckles too, and it feels so wonderful to be on good terms with him again. You forgot what you had been missing. John’s face is not made for anger, you realize, and neither is yours.

“How much longer do we have to eat Gamzee’s cooking?” John asks. “He uses too much sugar.”

You sigh. Sugar is already in very short supply. “Two more months.”

“What is that? One more trimester?”

“Yep. New planet, new calendar. Longer months. Early Heart.” Heart is February, which makes it one of the easier months to remember. You wonder if Karkat did that on purpose. Apparently he’s the party responsible for replacing Valentine’s Day with some sort of feelings-egalitarian troll equivalent. Good riddance! Love is overrated.

“Is Roxy going to be able to come to the Christmas party? It’s at the end of the week.”

“I don’t see any reason why not. She might need help getting downstairs, though. She’s been complaining of achey legs. The baby’s sitting on her spine, pinching her nerves.”

“I’ll bring her down myself. But if it’s a nerve problem, can’t Kanaya use her voodoo pins?”

“It’s not safe, John. She has hyperemesis gravidarum – that’s the reason she’s been so queasy,” you add, since he zoned out as soon as you started talking medical jargon. “The pressure point for nausea is okay to use in pregnant women, but some of the other spots can induce early labor. Kanaya doesn’t want to take the risk.”

John nods. Maybe he does understand that Roxy is in good hands, despite the inexperience of her doctor and the limited medical resources. Sparing the grist cache now – going without a stethoscope or an ultrasound machine, and using cheap needles to relieve nausea instead of paying out the nose for a drug that won’t hurt the baby – means there will be more on hand in an emergency. With any luck, by springtime, when the matriorb is due to hatch, Roxy and the baby will be out of danger.

“Thanks for taking care of her,” John says charitably, his eyes full of affection, and you wonder what you did to deserve him. Who would take the abuse you’ve been slinging and still love you at the end of the day? Who understands you like he does?

“She’s not out of the shadow yet,” you warn him. “She still has ups and downs. This is the best day she’s had in months, but it’s not over by a long shot.”

“Then I expect you will keep taking care of her.” He looks over his shoulder. “Oh good, Kanaya’s taking out the devil needle.” He squeezes to the side to let her out and reaches for the handle to pull the door shut between you, stranding you in the hallway. Kanaya brushes past you, heading back towards the room she shares with her fiancée. She and Rose didn’t think it was necessary to take up two bedrooms any longer, so when you moved up to the big house, they consolidated, felicitously leaving an empty room next to Roxy’s to serve as a nursery. You need to remember to thank them some time.

You catch the swinging door with one hand before it latches. “What are you up to, John?”

“I haven’t been alone with my girlfriend for weeks. Weeks! Weeeeeekss.” He lowers his voice to a whisper, his eyes shining. “Is it true that pregnant ladies get super horny?”

You let go of the door, feeling lighter than you have since you left the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to take a detour into gratuitous smut, [the fruits of the garden](http://archiveofourown.org/works/768763) goes here, between Chapter 11 and Chapter 12. Chapter 12 goes up next week and it's a big one! Dirk will our narrator. See you then!
> 
> References: ["Manual acupuncture reduces hyperemesis gravidarum: a placebo-controlled, randomized, single-blind, crossover study."](http://download.journals.elsevierhealth.com/pdfs/journals/0885-3924/PIIS0885392400001858.pdf)
> 
> Theme for John and Jane: ["Little Talks" - Of Monsters and Men](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ghb6eDopW8I)


	12. Dirk: Be the rock.

Looks like I’m going to have to tell this part of the story, since everyone else who was there was too busy being busy or being stupid or having a baby to tell it right.

Now the first thing you have to understand is that this happened about five or six weeks after Christmas, which was the day that John spent the whole afternoon bracing to propose to Roxy only to have her take a turn for the worse in the middle of dinner. I brought her back to bed but I think it was Jane who stayed with her while the rest of us were eating and decorating the tree. She spent her own birthday in bed, too, with John hanging on to her hand, too nervous to wake her up.

Not my birthday, though. My birthday’s in July now. July in Houston meant stripping down and diving off the high rise into the steaming ocean. The air was so humid I’d be wet before I hit the water. July meant lying in the buff with the sheets thrown back and all the windows open, letting the water sounds lull me to drowsing. July was everything perfect about my life before this crowd of people wandered into it.

The new word for July is Mind, which works out just fine since my own head’s the only place that belongs to me anymore. Everything else I have to share, but not my mind.

Getting off track here. I meant to say that six weeks after Christmas was really only about five weeks on the new calendar. So we’re talking around the beginning of January, I mean Time, which for some reason was no longer New Year’s. Roxy wasn’t actually due for another five weeks, which was actually seven –

Ah, fuck it. She was forty-one days early, as near as we could figure. And thank god the days were about the same length from one planet to the next or we’d all be out of our fucking minds, except for Jade, who already was. Whose bright idea was it to put her in charge of the calendar? Oh, that’s right. My asshole brother. Sometimes I wonder if other-me dropped him on his head as a kid.

Got that straight? All right, moving on.

Whoops, got to rewind so I can tell you about Jake.

Last time we talked I told you about the time I broke my rib. That was two trimesters ago, give or take. Since then, I healed up okay, but I stayed away from Jake for a while because all he meant to me was pain. Not emotionally, really, not at first; it was just a brain chemistry thing. He would kiss me or touch me and my heart would start thumping and I couldn’t get enough air. Like a panic attack, I guess, but every time it happened my broken rib started acting up and made it ten times worse. Then he went and fucked Jane and everything went to hell.

I mean, I didn’t know what happened at first. I knew they were fighting and it made me glad because I thought shit was going to get back to normal between us. But it didn’t. He took Jane’s hurt and rage inside himself and made it his justification. It burned in his heart until there was nothing left to love. Jane knew it, I knew it, and Jake hated himself more than both of us did put together. But Jake’s not the kind of person who can keep his feelings quiet, so he spilled the whole thing to Roxy while she was sick unto death, and she gave him a new person to hate all unknowing. And somewhere in between she told me everything because she’s not nearly as good at secrets as she thinks she is.

I think the stage is set now.

* * *

Roxy, John, Jane, Dave and I were playing cards in Roxy’s room one night after dinner some time in early January (and fuck you, asshole, I can call it January if I want.) Roxy was swaddled in blankets because the cold was seeping through the shutters; John kept telling us it was going to snow and none of us believed him because we hadn’t seen snow yet in this place. We thought we were too close to the equator for winter to touch us – Roxy did, anyway. But she had spent the winter tucked away snug inside the big house while the rest of us actually had to brave the bitter bluster every once in a while. Whether we were mentally prepared for snow or not, we should have figured that, of any of us, John would know when the wind meant business.

“Where’s Jade?” Roxy asked with the feigned innocence of a veteran streetwalker.

“Do I look like her keeper?” Dave’s hand hovered menacingly over the table. He and John were the only ones left in the round and he wasn’t about to let Roxy’s ploy distract him.

The competition was intense. While John would bring his hand down on the table like a hammer blow, Dave darted in under the radar to slap the cards faster than a whip. The result was that Dave usually took the pile at the cost of an increasingly bruised hand.

Dave almost always won that card game. Presumably the thrill of the contest was more immediate in his mind than the risk of fractured metacarpals. The next day he’d sport an icepack like laurels.

“She used to like to play cards with us,” said Roxy.

“She came to her senses and realized she’s too cool to be hanging out with you losers. Last time I saw her she was cruising on a fixed-gear bike listening to bands you’ve never heard of with her earmuff headphones.”

“Weaving through traffic in total disregard for her personal safety,” I added for the sake of completion.

“Wearing a disaffected expression and a chunky pair of glasses with the lenses popped out.”

John giggled. “I can totally see that. Big, ridiculous, fluffy pink earmuffs. Even when it’s not cold out. Watch out, hipster Jade, your scarf’s gonna get tangled up in the chain!” His hand slammed down on the card table, sending Jane’s empty cup flying. She slapped at him playfully and got up to retrieve it as Dave extracted his spoils.

From the door, we heard her say “What are you doing here?” Her furious tone pulled us away from Dave’s flexing hand to the specter at the threshold. It was Jake the snake, eyes pinned and glowing feverishly from sunken orbits. He didn’t look at her.

“What is _he_ doing here?” he answered quietly. “What is he doing in my chair? What is he doing next to Roxy?”

“You can have my chair just as soon as I finish feeding John his own bony butt,” said Dave. “It’ll only take another minute.”

Jake’s voice rose precipitously. “Why is he allowed in here? Don’t you know what he did to her?”

I leaned over to Dave. “Thanks for trying, bro.” He shrugged, face unreadable, and turned to back to watch Jake’s theatrics.

“How come you let him in here and not _me_? She’s my friend too. She was my friend before she ever met him. You can’t let him in and keep me out!”

As Jake was working himself into a rage, John unfolded out of his chair. He broke in to Jake’s rant.

“We’re just playing cards, dude. Let’s go find you a seat. Do you know how to play Egyptian Ratscrew?” He took a single step towards Jake, hand held out like a peace offering. Jake held his hands out too. They were holding guns. He was shaking so hard I thought he might rattle.

Jane moaned. “Please, Jake, put those away. This is a sickroom, they don’t belong here!”

Roxy was out of her chair in a flash, hauling her blankets with her. I never thought a pregnant woman could move so fast. She put herself between Jake and his blue-eyed doppelganger, forcing him to aim one of his pistols elsewhere. “That’s not called for,” she said sternly.

He didn’t lower his other weapon. “That scoundrel hurt you and he’s going to pay.” The golden gun glittered like a disco ball, except instead of turning it vibrated in place, throwing sparks onto the walls. Its twin hung loosely at his side. “How can you defend him after what he did?”

“What did he do to me?” Her hand, the one not clutching at quilts, rested lightly on her belly.

Jake roiled and seethed. I pictured an abandoned tea kettle, quivering in place and screaming for attention. “He knocked you up – that baby nearly killed you – he made you sad, he made you cry, you said you wanted to –“

“I know what I said,” Roxy interrupted. “I was delirious and I said some things I didn’t mean.”

“You’re too young, you’re not ready for a baby! He should have known better!” Jake squeezed his eyes shut, but they popped back open.

“Listen, you blockhead!” That got his attention. Roxy continued more calmly, unperturbed by the trembling gun still pointed at John. “Did you know I stopped drinking weeks before I got pregnant? Did you know I was keeping an ovulation calendar?”

“What are you saying?” Jake asked doubtfully. The jealous light in his eyes started to fade.

John’s face said that he was not surprised by the revelation that Roxy got herself pregnant on purpose. Hell, in his shoes I wouldn’t have put it past her either – Roxy always did run circles around Egbert. It was funny how much he seemed to enjoy getting constantly one-upped by someone half his size. Love does that to you, I guess.

“I’m saying that I wanted this baby, you idiot! So put that gun away!” She laughed merrily at Jake’s confusion; the sound seemed eerily out of place amidst the tension of the standoff. Mid-wheeze, she doubled over, throwing out her arm for balance. “The little wiggler’s trying to tie me in a knot,” she giggled, and her fingertips perched on the end of Jake’s pistol, fumbling for purchase.

I know he didn’t mean to do it. I don’t think he ever intended to use the thing. But Roxy clung to the end of the barrel and he tightened his grip to keep her from falling, and the blast that punctuated her laughter was the sound of her hand being blown off.

The seconds while our ears were ringing seemed like one round, full moment. Roxy fell heavily to the floor, her hair shining like the tail of a comet, and Jane rushed to her side. Jake’s guns clattered to the ground at his feet. His eyes grew as wide as his hands, raised, fingers spread, denying.

John took one step forward. In his second step he brought the beautiful gaudy hammer out of his specibus and into the side of Jake’s head in a powerful backhand swing.

It was magnificent.

He watched Jake crumple with an inclement expression. His warhammer matched the Rainbow Dash tee shirt he was wearing. I was ludicrously thankful that I had never asked for it back.

Jake lay prone with his skull smashed in; the halo of gore from the impact of head on floor was Pollock-worthy, a splash of blood littered with bits of bone and grey matter. I saw him there, and it was just like last time, when that green fucker brained him with his golden scepter. It was his reward, English said, for loyal service. He put a dent in Jake’s skull and laughed as he did it. Jake didn’t even have a chance to realize he had been played.

But this time, my heart didn’t drop into my stomach. I didn’t feel the ground crumble under my feet or the primal panic of freefall. This time, I looked at his body, his jacket laid out under him like forest-colored wings, and I thought: I hope he has another pair of glasses, because that pair is _fucked_.

I knelt beside Jane, who was trying to field nonsensical questions like “Why does my hand feel like a pumpkin?” and “Who’s going to have the baby if I don’t?” I took the belt away from her and tied it around Roxy’s arm, which I propped on my shoulder to keep it elevated. The blood trickling down my back reminded me inappropriately of Jake’s nosebleed, which in turn put a twinge in my side.

“Thanks,” Jane said breathily, trying to tie the corner of a blanket over the stump of Roxy’s wrist.

I pushed her hand away. “I’ve got this, Jane.” She fidgeted. I told her, “Go help Jake.”

“Jake can wait. Roxy needs us now.” Her jaw set stubborn and angry.

“Roxy needs Kanaya. Jake needs you.”

“What’s wrong with Jake?” Roxy asked feverishly.

“Why should I?” hissed Jane.

“Because he loves you.” Jane colored. She opened her mouth and closed it again. And then she stomped away.

“Good luck!” Roxy warbled at her back.

Dave was prying the hammer out of John’s hand, the edge of it matted with blood and hair. John was a berserker without an enemy, fighting himself, fighting just to fight. Dave winged him upside the head with the flat of his hand and pushed him toward the door. “Come on, you batshit Neanderthal,” he said to his friend, “you’ve done enough damage here already. Let’s go find Karkat and do some more constructive ass-kicking.”

I raised my voice. “Before you go looking for Vantas, bro, I need you to find Kanaya.” Dave nodded over his shoulder, driving John in front of him down the hall.

Across the floor from me, Jane got to work. She straightened Jake out and brushed back his hair. The shattered glasses, she set aside. She never learned to do this without liplock – says it’s more fun that way.

She lifted his head gently, cradling it in her elbow as she tried not to put her fingers in the sticky mess where the right side of his brain was supposed to be, and kissed his bloody lips. The glow that sprang up around her danced down his body like blue fire.

I wasn’t surprised to see his arm come up around her shoulder when she drew him back to the present. Her hand hovered in the air a moment like she wanted to slap him, but the blow never landed. Instead, she took a fistful of his shirt and let him kiss her back.

It was all exactly like last time, right down to the way he beamed up at her when he opened his eyes, like she was the best thing he could have hoped to wake up to. That smile is the reason I never held Jane’s crush against her. No one could resist that shit. In that way I guess he was like his grandma – they both had a talent for holding hearts hostage without even realizing they were doing it. Those bright green eyes were fucking Strider kryptonite.

I realized, too, that that moment – the first time Jane kissed him back to life, the first time I had to watch them cling to each other – that was when the balance of power shifted in our relationship. Before Jake died, I was in control: I was the one who kissed him, I was the one who fucked him, and all he had to do was sit there and look pretty. After his death is when he grew a spine and started pushing back. I enjoyed it – who wouldn’t? – being the one pursued, being the piece of meat for once. But that meant he was free to choose the object of his affection. You could argue that it was the presence of a second option that gave him control over me.

I liked the new Jake. I liked the way he dominated me when we fought or fucked (same thing, by the end, but it didn’t start off that way), but all of a sudden I had to deal with all of this anxiety about _what if he decides he doesn’t like me anymore_ that never came up when he was my bitch, and I handled it very, very badly. In the end I think I drove him into Jane’s arms.

“Get him out of here,” I told her.

Kanaya arrived, breathless, as I was moving Roxy to the bed. Terezi drafted her wake. The little monster had her muzzle in the air at the scent of blood and both of them had snow in their hair.

“What happened here?” Terezi asked as Kanaya crossed the room at a trot. “It smells like a bloodbath.”

“You didn’t hear the gunshot?”

“We were playing in the snow,” she announced, like that explained anything.

Kanaya rolled her eyes. Her hands were busy checking Roxy’s vitals. “Ignore her. She’s never seen snow before.”

“I’ve still never seen snow!” Terezi minced. She stuck her tongue out at Kanaya’s back.

“What does it taste like?” Roxy asked slowly. She let her head loll sideways so she could look at her troll friend.

“Clean laundry!” Terezi answered. They shared smiles, one shark-toothed, the other through cracked lips.

“Her capillary refill time is very slow,” Kanaya said to me quietly. She lifted Roxy’s lip and pressed a claw to her gumline, showing me how long it took for the color to come back. She pulled down her lower eyelid so I could see how pale it was on the inside. Roxy’s eye rolled in its socket from Terezi to Kanaya and back again.

“What does that mean?”

“She has lost a lot of blood.” Kanaya sent Terezi looking through Roxy’s dresser for more belts. They found a narrow pink one that she added below mine. She gave me a cup of water and told me to keep her drinking. “If the wound won’t stanch, we have to keep her volume up.”

I lifted Roxy’s head awkwardly with one hand as I tried to get her to drink with the other, my right shoulder hunched to keep her arm from rolling off. I was tempted to try to hold it in place with my chin, but I didn’t want to think about how she would react. Eventually we got it to work.

Satisfied with our efforts, Kanaya said she was leaving to gather her supplies. She instructed us to keep Roxy’s arm elevated and to try to count the baby’s kicks. Then she was rustling toward the door.

“Kanaya, wait. What if she doesn’t stop bleeding?”

Kanaya answered, like a mantra: “All bleeding eventually stops.” The scarlet hem of her skirt whisked behind her.

The next hour wiled away with little sips and Terezi’s thorny voice. She talked about Vriska, mostly, and Sollux, and other friends lost. She told a tall tale about a woman she claimed was her ancestor that sounded suspiciously like the backstory for a roleplaying character. She checked Roxy’s vitals every five minutes like clockwork. She clutched at Roxy’s hand like she was the one dying. Roxy said nothing except when the baby moved.

Kanaya came to check on her and left again. Roxy fell asleep. Unable to give her water, I slid into a waking dream, kneeling upright next to her with my chin nearly touching my chest, her bloody arm tickling my neck. Terezi’s droning was the sound of rain on the water.

Her pointy little elbow jabbed me back to consciousness. “Dirk, wake up, wake up!”

My shirt was plastered to my back with Roxy’s cooling blood. Her lips were pale and chapped, her platinum hair gummed to her neck with gobs of clotted gore. I lifted her head and pulled open one eyelid. I didn’t even have to look at her conjunctiva; her iris was pale grey where it would normally be rose-pink, like the color had drained away with her lifeblood.

“Go get Kanaya,” I told Terezi, and counted breaths, counted heartbeats, until she came back with both Jane and the doctor, all three of them laden with bowls and bandages and packets.

Kanaya left the other girls to set up her things on the card table while she checked Roxy. “When was the last time the baby moved?” she wanted to know. Roxy didn’t answer. I told her I hadn’t felt anything.

Kanaya glanced at Terezi. She didn’t ask, but Terezi answered anyway: “Whatever you’re going to do, do it now, or both of them will die.”

Kanaya nodded brusquely and stood, scrubbing her hands over a basin of steaming water. I noticed she had cut her nails down almost to the quick.

“Do what?” Kanaya didn’t answer immediately, which kind of made me want to strangle her. Instead I chewed my tongue.

“If you can wake her up, please give her more water. Hydration is essential,” she deflected, patting her hands dry on a clean towel and pulling on a pair of latex gloves from one of the many packets her assistants had laid out. She accepted a long tube from another packet and coated it with gel from a third.

“Do what, Kanaya?”

“I’m going to induce her,” she stated finally. “Jane, will you undress and wash her? Dirk, I need her to be closer to the end of the bed.”

“Fucking hell,” I groused, trying to drag Roxy’s dead weight without jogging her stump. Terezi came forward to help. Between the two of us we wrestled her unconscious body sideways so we could prop her up on a mountain of pillows while Jane and Kanaya worked on her other end. I dipped my fingers in the water cup and painted the inside of her mouth until she woke up and swallowed on her own. Terezi lay on her stomach, arms wrapped around the bulge of Roxy’s belly, using it as a pillow. She gave a little chirp whenever she felt it move. As Roxy revived, the baby did too. Jane brought her a cup of cold goat’s milk and she drank the whole thing without complaint.

“What’s going on?” she asked, wiping her lips on her shoulder.

“We’re inducing you with a Foley catheter. It puts pressure on your cervix and tells it to dilate. Once you’re dilated we’ll try to initiate contractions.”

“I’m not due for like seven weeks, Kan.”

“You’re losing too much blood. Eventually your body will shunt blood away from the baby to save you, assuming you don’t hemorrhage to death first.”

She flopped her head over to look at me. “Why are you here?”

“No one’s told me to leave yet. Do you want me to get John?”

She nodded, eyes crinkling. “But then come back.”

I transferred stump duty to Terezi and went down the hall to grab a jacket. I found everyone where I expected them to be, outside, roughhousing in the falling snow in the white light of the twin moons. They had divided themselves up into teams by some arcane rubric and were staging a war of epic proportions. As I watched, Gamzee lifted Karkat by the waist and dunked him headfirst in the snow. Jake pelted John in the face with a snowball. John retaliated by throwing him into a drift, laughing uproariously.

Jake lifted one mittened hand and pointed at me.

John climbed the hill to join me, hunched in my jacket, watching Rose and Jade make angels. Aradia had a trick; she just fell backward, letting her wings make their own imprint.

The first words out of John’s mouth were “How is she?”

“Bad, but hanging on. Kanaya’s going to induce her so she doesn’t lose the baby.”

John blanched. “She said that was dangerous.”

“Terezi thinks she’ll die if we don’t do it.”

John nodded and looked over my shoulder at something. He turned his face up in the moonlight and we stood there for a second watching the flurry come down. “Have you ever seen snow before?” he asked me.

“On televis –“ I stumbled forward into him at the sudden impact to my back. Something cold and wet went down my shirt, and I made an embarrassingly high-pitched noise. John caught me and kept me from sliding down the hill on my ass as I tried to dislodge Dave, who whooped and plastered my face with another handful of snow. The three of us danced there precariously, shouting, until I decided the best way to get him off my back was to roll on him. He let go about halfway down the slope.

I lay where I landed, watching snowflakes land on my sunglasses as the ice melted on my back. Gamzee offered me a hand up. He flashed me a wicked grin and put a snowball in my hand; I made Dave eat it.

* * *

John and I knocked the snow off our boots in the entryway. I mentioned it looked like he and Jake were friends again.

“I was never not his friend,” said John.

“So you’ve forgiven him? Everything’s fine?”

“Well, no,” he replies, “but that doesn’t mean we’re not friends.” He shook the snow out of his coat and didn’t elaborate, so I chalked it up to the mysterious mind of John Egbert. I’d seen the way he held people together – just by being himself, no effort necessary – just like Roxy used to do before this pregnancy ate her alive. If his friends saw him getting along with Jake despite the bad blood, they’d follow suit. John’s forbearance just might be Jake’s saving grace.

We climbed the stairs and split at the top: he to Roxy’s room and I to mine, to change out of my ice-cold, red-encrusted shirt and wash the gunk out of my hair. When I returned, nothing had changed except that it was John kneeling next to Roxy, spoon-feeding her chocolate pudding.

Kanaya was explaining why she couldn’t perform a transfusion. “There’s no way to make it safe for the baby,” she said patiently.

“Then is there anything we can do to get her into labor faster?”

“Nothing safe. We have to wait for her cervix to dilate, and even then it will take hours for the baby to come.”

Jane put her hand on her brother’s shoulder. “John, it could take _days_.”

Terezi had fallen asleep with her ear pressed to Roxy’s abdomen. I pinched her and sent her outside to play, taking her seat on the bed.

“How you feeling, short stuff?”

“Woozy,” Roxy yawned. “I can’t feel my hand.”

“You don’t have a hand.”

“I mean my arm’s numb, dumbass. The tourniquets are working.” I checked her wrist. It was starting to crust over, the trickle slowing to an ooze. She popped her mouth open for a bite of pudding and smiled at me around the spoon. “Thanks for coming back.”

I squeezed her hand. She was cold as ice. “Did you know your eyes are grey without blood in them?” I told her. “I don’t think it works that way for normal people.”

She laughed. “I bet my mom’s eyes are blue! Does that mean yours are yellow?” she teased. I shrugged. Who the fuck has yellow eyes? Who the fuck has orange eyes.

“What does that make Dave?” John prompted.

“Albino,” Roxy and I finished together. She would have rolled over if not for the pillows boxing her in.

For some reason, she thought his condition was hilarious. She’d probably change her mind if he would ever take off his glasses. God, that guy. ( _You’re one to talk_ , I heard AR reply, and I remembered why I didn’t miss him at all.)

John and Jane and Kanaya napped in turns. The horror of finding Roxy half-dead propped my eyes open.

It was a relief when Kanaya slid the catheter out from under the blanket, announcing “Time for phase two.” She busied herself with the acupuncture prep. I couldn’t see where she stuck the needles; Roxy’s knees made a tent of her covers. John had to leave the room. Kanaya told Roxy that she could rub her nipples to try to stimulate contractions.

Roxy reached under her shirt to fondle one breast, her mouth tight and eyes fixed on the corner of the window. “Don’t you dare laugh,” she warned me.

“I’m not,” I told her, my arms dangling from her elbow by laced fingers.

Roxy went into the first stage of labor some time after that. John and I took turns going out for air while the other elevated her arm. Kanaya had us walk her up and down the hall in her nightgown despite the shooting pains in her legs. She drank so much water that she had to pee three times in one hour.

“Don’t drop the baby in the toilet,” I said.

“I hate you, Dirk Strider!” she yelled through the bathroom door. Even Kanaya laughed at that.

At some point her wrist reopened, completely ruining the Rainbow Dash tee shirt. After that she had to stay in bed. Her contractions built in frequency and intensity over the course of the day, marked by Kanaya’s dry admonitions: “Don’t push yet,” she said, “you’re only eight centimeters.” We tried to keep her energy up with crackers and ice chips, but her exhaustion was obvious.

Delivery was a nightmare that wrung her out like a sponge, for all that Kanaya called it short. It seemed like it only took a couple of pushes after the baby crowned for it to be over. John wouldn’t uncover his eyes until Kanaya made him cut the cord. Jane cleaned off the baby’s face and rubbed it until it screamed, at which point she wrapped it in a blanket and deposited it in John’s arms.

He was so distracted he swung wide around the card table and walked right into the dresser. When he finally made it to Roxy’s side he told her in broken English that it was a girl.

She touched the baby’s nose. “She’s so tiny.”

“That was bothering me too,” Kanaya said. She cursed, sounding a little muffled. “I am never, ever, ever going to deliver a baby without a stethoscope. Ever. Again.” She paused. “And I am going to kill Terezi Pyrope.”

“What are you doing down there?” I asked with a growing sense of alarm.

“Checking for spares and tears,” she replied tersely.

“Who taught you to deliver babies? James Herriot?”

“I thought it would be edifying to read about medicine from the perspective of someone who practiced with minimal resources at hand. And it was.”

“A veterinarian,” I said flatly.

“There is a lot to learn that is not in any textbook. Like checking for spares and tears.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s the second rule of delivering babies. Tears are tears in the vaginal wall. Spares are multiples.”

“What’s the first rule?”

“Wash your hands.” Kanaya peeked around the edge of the blanket. “Roxy, I need you to keep pushing.”

Roxy whimpered. “Can’t we just let the damn bag fall out on its own?”

“We are not quite there yet.” Kanaya sounded tired. “There is another baby.”

“You have _got_ to be kidding me,” Roxy said weakly.

The second baby was delivered in a matter of minutes, and the placenta shortly thereafter. Jane brought him to me. I tried to foist him off on Roxy, but by the time he was cleaned up she was snoring. I didn’t have the heart to wake her up.

The kid was wearing one of Rose’s soft knitted baby caps; it was way too big for his tiny head. John caught me balancing my shades gently on his nose.

“What are you going to name them?”

“Oh my god. Two babies. We get to pick a girl’s name _and_ a boy’s name.” John considered. “How about Luke and Leia?”

“Not gonna happen,” Roxy said muddily, and went right back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [One More Time](http://archiveofourown.org/works/785233) goes here, between Chapter 12 and Chapter 13. The next update will be a John chapter.
> 
> Theme for Jake: ["Pumped Up Kicks" - Foster the People](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SDTZ7iX4vTQ)


	13. John: Try to understand.

Naming kids is hard. It’s hard and no one understands.

Roxy vetoed Luke and Leia, but both of you like L, so you’ve been working with that. You tossed around Lisa and Lily and Lois and Lyra, picking names out of your favorite books and television shows, to no avail. She nominated Link for the boy. You told her you were not naming your firstborn son after a pansy video game elf. She noted that he was a _heroic_ pansy video game elf, but you were not swayed.

Having reached an impasse, you keep each other company in fitful silence.

The new mother awkwardly shifts the baby to the other breast, but she coughs feebly and refuses to suck. Rox has tried everything she could think of: patting her, rocking her, holding her in a different position. The kids nursed okay in the beginning, but around the time they started making horrible noises when they breathed, about three days ago, they stopped wanting to drink. Poor, beleaguered Roxy has been manually expressing milk to feed them with a spoon, and she absolutely hates it.

“Switch,” she says, passing your little girl to Jane so she can try to get the other to nurse. You transfer him carefully to her arms, gingerly supporting his tiny head, and reach out to accept the bundle from Jane to complete the complicated twin-swapping maneuver.

She pulls back. “Can I hold her for a little while?”

You don’t mind at all. Jane (and everybody else) taking turns holding two sick babies is the only reason you’ve gotten any sleep since they were born. How long has it been since the delivery? One week? Two? Roxy’s barely slept even with the extra help, what with the nursing thing. It seems like she’s constantly feeding the babies; one or the other is hungry pretty much 24/7. She spends the rest of her waking hours worrying. She’s got a terrible case of the worries.

You watch Jane push up the hem of her shirt so she can hold the baby against her bare tummy, cooing tenderly. Jane’s maternal instincts have, so far, proven to be much stronger than Roxy’s. Roxy only touches the infants to feed them, and she doesn’t even try talking to them. So far it hasn’t been a problem, but at night, when your own worries rob you of sleep, you think about grown-up things like your babies’ emotional development. You feel like a traitor for even entertaining the idea that Roxy might not be cut out for this. At least she’s making an effort.

Preemies have lots of problems, Kanaya says, but the biggest problem is their lungs. They’re not meant to breathe yet, so they can’t move air very well. That means they’re at risk for pneumonia. You can’t afford expensive intravenous drugs, not with the grist cache in the state it’s in, so Plan B is called Supportive Care: keeping them hydrated and warm, trying to help them cough up the gunk in their lungs, and, every so often, gently breathing for them.

You’re not the fucking Heir of Breath for nothing. You guess.

Roxy gives up on coaxing her son to latch, and picks up the cup with its tablespoon of breastmilk out of a pan of ice on the bedside table. She realizes she doesn’t have enough hands – literally doesn’t have enough hands – to hold the cup and spoon at the same time, and wordlessly holds it out to you. She looks incredibly tired, her hair (a good three inches longer than it was this summer) hanging in her face in greasy locks, with raccoon-like circles under her eyes. You scooch forward to help.

“How are you feeling?” you ask her quietly.

“My arm hurts like a mother,” she says, and you crack a smile, thinking she’s making a joke. She’s not, judging by the bleary glare she fires in your direction. You school your face back to an acceptable level of serious as you present a tiny sip of milk to your baby boy. He doesn’t swallow it right away but doesn’t drool it out either, which is promising. The best way not to waste the milk, you’ve discovered, is to give it bit by bit instead of a whole spoonful all at once.

“God. I just want to sleep. I want to sleep for a week, and when I wake up I want all of this to be a bad dream.” Her voice is deadened by fatigue.

He finally swallows, his fat little cheeks dragging down the corners of his tiny mouth. You’re not sure what you’re supposed to say to that, so you stir the milk instead.

“Roxy…”

“Don’t ‘Roxy’ me. I signed up for one healthy baby. Not two sick preemies and a maiming.” The stump of her hand, covered in gauze padding secured to her wrist with medical tape, keeps trying to bleed. Kanaya hypothesized that Roxy’s body is working so hard on making milk that it’s impeding her healing process. Not being able to sleep probably isn’t helping, either. At least she’s not having any trouble eating; yesterday she asked for thirds. Thank goodness for small miracles.

The babies fit one at a time in the crook of her elbow while she’s sitting down, which frees up her sound left hand, but if she needs to carry them anywhere she has to use the arm that works or risk dropping somebody. Trying to support any weight at all with her right arm elicits waves of pain that make her eyes pop out and her teeth grind audibly. On top of everything else, her left hand will never be a replacement for the right; it’s clumsy, weak and trembling, and completely without fine motor control. She keeps overshooting her gestures, which gives the impression that she’s flailing, maybe, or seizuring. Dirk told her that, as a leftie, she could give Caliborn a run for his money for the worst handwriting in existence. She hasn’t picked up a pen since.

“We’ll get through this,” you tell her.

“Take this child away from me before I kill it,” she answers.

As soon as you do, she’s cantilevering herself out of the bed and stalking to the bathroom, slamming the door shut with one hip. You hear the whine of pipes warming up before the shower comes on, and you hope she has a nice long one and winds down a little bit, because she’s taken almost no time for herself in days and days.

A knock at the door. “I brought you soup,” Rose calls, and Jane welcomes her in with a warmth that’s got to be at least ninety percent endorphins, because you know for a fact that Jane is not that fond of Rose, for no other reason than that they got off on the wrong foot.

“Soup, god, yes, that’s just what I needed,” you say, turning around, and nearly knock the tray out of Dave’s hands – but he swings out of the way, scalding himself with the hot broth but leaving you and the baby unscathed.

“Dude, watch it, this shit is like lava, ow fuck.”

“Dave!” You can’t tamp down your excitement. Wait till he meets your kids! Maybe he has ideas for some good names.

“Hey, guy, I can’t stick around, but I thought I’d come say hi anyway.” Rose bangs him lightly in the shin. “I’m not avoiding you or shit like that, I’ve just been busy.” He finishes dishing out the soup bowls and turns to kick back at his sister, letting his foot swing wide.

“Did you name ‘em yet?” His hair, as pale as Roxy’s, brushes his face when he leans over the bundle in your arms.

“Hello, little one,” he says, holding out a finger, and your little man grabs it in his fist and won’t let go, which prompts Dave to peals of laughter the like of which you’ve never heard tumbling from his mouth. You exchange an incredulous glance with Rose – well, incredulous on your end, and sort of ruefully amused on hers. She’s enacting much the same scene over your daughter, though she’s holding herself together with a bit more success.

“That kid is going to be a monster, a fucking juvenescent Hercules,” he snickers, fingertips bumping up his shades to scrub at his eyes. You catch a glimpse, and they’re not pretty, but the window of opportunity bangs shut before you can work up the nerve to ask.

“We haven’t settled on names yet,” you confess. “Do you have any ideas?”

“Barack and Michelle,” he shoots back carelessly.

“ _No_.”

“Then I got nothin’,” he shrugs, slouching over to Rose and Jane, three bowed heads without a single intact adult vocabulary between them.

Dave does leave, a few minutes later, and when the door closes behind him Rose says: “You’ll have to forgive him for not stopping by sooner. He’s been in holy terror of walking in on Roxy breastfeeding.”

This is news, but not really. Dave’s come to terms with his brother, battlefield allies in the heat of a drawn-out fraternal war, but he still spooks at the reminder that Roxy is, in a backhanded way, kind of his mom. Growing up, you never asked him how he imagined his birth parents – back when you figured they died in a car accident or something – and now you’re afraid it’s too late to squeeze an honest answer from him. He uses humor and insincerity like a force field; Rose is the only person who can consistently get purchase. Even Jade usually prefers to rely on her intuition rather than try to extract information from him verbally.

“By the way, Karkat thought he’d bring Gamzee by, if that’s okay with you.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” The look on Jane’s face echoes yours. You’ve got no problem with Gamzee, and Janey’s downright buddy-buddy with him. Rose’s eyebrows shoot up towards her hairline anyway.

“Are you sure? John, I know you and Karkat are close, but Gamzee’s just not as civilized as the other trolls. Do you know what they used to do to juvenile trolls back on Alternia?”

“That’s ridiculous, Rose, he’s not going to try to cull my kids!” Especially not with Karkat there, you add silently. Jane’s expression is a little horrified. She’s spent enough time with Gamzee to get over his pious (and now, significantly-less-than-pious) idiosyncrasies, but she lives in a state of denial regarding his, you know, trollicidal past. He’s just a big, clumsy, foul-mouthed teddy bear as far as she’s concerned. If he was going to hurt her he could have done it a hundred times over by now.

“I know, I know. I just want you to be cognizant of the risks. Gamzee is _dangerous_.” She bites off each syllable individually.

“Do you See something? Is he going to hurt them?” She hears the capital letter, shakes her head reluctantly. “Then it’ll be fine! He’s a changed troll, Rose. He hasn’t killed anybody in, like, four years.”

“I lived on the meteor with him for three of those years and he’s still a complete stranger to me. Not to mention that he served Lord English, our _sworn enemy_ , up until the moment of his defeat. Just because he’s docile now does not mean we should get complacent.”

“What does he have to do to prove himself to you?” Jane retorts, bristling. The baby picks up her tone and begins to fuss. “If you’re going to treat him like a _pariah_ , Rose, then you might as well be up front about it. ‘Gamzee, I’m sorry, I know you’ve been trying really hard, but it turns out we can’t trust you around our wigglers, so here’s fifty bucks and a bus pass! Have a nice life!’” Her Rose-voice is brightly false, squeaky, and unflattering.

Rose straightens coldly, gathering dignity around her like a robe. “I am not suggesting we send him away, Jane. Merely that we don’t ask him to babysit. I have the babies’ best interests at heart, and I should think that you would want to pay heed.” She grimaces a farewell at you on her way out. You give her an apologetic look in return.

Jane clears her throat uneasily. The both of you swivel to look at the bathroom door. The shower’s still going.

“I’m gonna go check on Roxy,” you tell her. Jane bobs her head and picks up the milk cup. Your daughter’s cries fill the room as you slip away.

* * *

The bathroom feels like a sauna, warm, wet air that sticks in your throat. Roxy’s slumped naked in the bottom of the tub, her bandaged wrist draped over the side where it might manage to stay mostly dry. The water is pounding her breasts and stomach and thighs; her mouth is closed against the spray. Settling yourself next to her, between the edge of the tub and the toilet bowl, you prop the baby upright between your tucked-up knees. He coughs a little and yawns. Such a cute little mouth! Every little thing they do turns you into jelly. You really wish Roxy would open her eyes to see this.

The air is clearer down here closer to the floor. _The warmth should be good for his lungs_ , you think. _Maybe he’ll get some sleep now_.

“Roxy,” you say softly. No answer. “Roxy, honey. Roxy.” She gives a low, put-upon groan.

Propping your chin on her shoulder, you try harder. “Roooxyyy.” She tries to shrug you off, but you simply advance until your nose is practically in her sodden hair. “Roooxyy…” She lifts her hand tiredly and flicks water in your face. You press your lips into her neck, right next to her voice box, and hum “Roooooox – oh, blech, yuck, river water.”

“Serves you right,” she murmurs.

“Oh good! You’re awake. Talk to me.”

“What about.”

“How about. Um. Babies.”

“Donwanna.”

“Look, there’s one right here. Look at how cute he is, with his adorable hat and fat little eyelids and fat little fingers and itsy-bitsy fingernails. Let’s talk about him.”

She finally opens her eyes, but after one glance at the bundle resting against your legs, she shuts them again. “Yep, there he is.”

You want to shake her, squeeze her until she tells you what’s going on in her head. You want to fix her, goddammit.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to have a baby? When did you change your mind?”

“When it turned out there were two of them.”

“That’s not the real answer. I want the real answer. Give it to me.”

She pushes herself up, letting the water run over the crown of her head. Each blonde lock has its own streaming rivulet. Water catapults off her eyelashes and the tip of her nose, water runs from her chin and splatters onto her belly. She speaks with her head tilted down so it won’t get in her mouth.

“I thought you were supposed to undergo this magical transformation when you had a baby. Like, oh, what is this amazing thing that just came out of me, BAM, motherhood.” Her hand mimics an explosion. “But the only thing that came to me when I looked at her was ‘I can’t do this.’”

“You don’t have to do it alone, sweetie, we’re all here to help. You’ll have more hands than you know what to do with.” She flicks her eyes down to her aching wrist, and you wish you had put it differently.

“You don’t understand, John. I literally can’t do this. They’re sick and they’re tiny and they need me, I’m their fucking mother, for crying out loud, but all I want to do is run away and never look back.”

Your heart aches to reach out to her, so you do, wrapping one arm around her waist. Your sleeve’s soaked through in seconds. She looks so miserable under the pouring water. “Maybe we can take a vacation when they’re older. Just you and me. We’ll go see the ocean, Roxy, we’ll find a beach and defend it from all comers, and we won’t come home until you’re ready, okay?”

She lays her hand, so small, over yours, digging her fingernails into the gaps between the bones. “I can’t wait that long, I need to get out of here _now_. I’m going to kill them, John, they’re so fragile, I can’t even keep a _cat_ alive, god, even _Karkat_ has more experience with wigglers than I do…” She’s working herself into a fit, her shoulders hunched against the downpour.

“No, Rox, we won’t let that happen –“

“It’s already happening, they won’t even _eat_ , John! They can barely breathe! Open your eyes! It’s already happening!”

“No, no, no,” you haul her to her feet, one-handed, your son clutched to your chest with the other, “I won’t let that happen, _Jane_ won’t let it happen, _Kanaya_ won’t let it happen, _Rose_ won’t let it happen, Dirk won’t let it happen, Karkat and Terezi and Gamzee won’t let it happen…” You drape a towel over her head and reach past the shower curtain to turn off the tap. She’s making a huge puddle, so you try to sluice some of the water out of her hair and into the sink. It sort of works.

“Don’t stand there, Roxy, you have to dry off. I don’t have enough hands to help.” She glares daggers at you and clutches the towel in her fist, dabbing it down her side.

“Don’t look at me like that! If you’re going to be mad at someone, be mad at Jake. I recommend hitting him, it’s very satisfying. I’ll even hold him for you.”

“What a gentleman,” she says hollowly, and dodges your kiss. She starts to shiver. You leave her alone to get dressed.

* * *

The man himself comes by later, with a knapsack packed with kittens and a full apology. Roxy doesn’t want either one.

“Are you insane?” she gasps, flinching backwards, shielding her daughter’s face with an elbow. “You can’t bring wild animals in here, Jake! What if they have worms?” Jane seconds Roxy’s reaction with a blistering look in his direction, and you wouldn’t be Jake right now for all the Jurassic Jungleberry Gushers in paradise.

You’re pretty sure that’s not a real flavor anyway, so no big loss. Also, Gushers are disgusting.

Jake juggles the tawny creature between his hands, trying to keep it from escaping. “Blast, Rox, I wasn’t thinking –“

Roxy scoffs. “Thinking, no, that’d be too much to ask! What are you doing here, Jake? What are you _really_ doing here?”

“I came to apologize! I really scuffed up, I know that. I just wanted to set things square between us.”

“With kittens? Jake, I don’t know where you found those things, but real kittens are about this big.” She lifts her bum hand and flings a hateful curse. It’s not clear whether she’s aiming her obscenities at Jake, her lack of fingers, or just reacting to the pain, but somehow she gets her point across.

“Yeah, those things are about five times too big, dude. Maybe they’re cougar kittens?” you guess. Jake finishes shoveling the mewling cat back into his knapsack with its siblings.

“You used to like cats,” Jake tells Roxy, weakly.

“Cats, I like. You, on the other hand….” He pulls a miserable face.

“What can I do to make it up to you? Please, help a sucker out. I’m dying here.”

Roxy lowers her voice. “How are things going with Miss Crocker?”

“Rough.” He shifts his grip on the bag’s strap. “I can’t do anything right, can I? Just call me Mr. Faux Pas.” He pronounces it “fox paws”. Sometimes you wonder if the elevator ever actually gets to the top or if it just keeps getting stuck at the Floor Of Shiny Objects That Make Loud Noises.

“She’s busy with the babies, but she won’t be that way forever. Tell you what, Jake: if you can make her happy, I’ll call it even. What d’you say?”

“Happy? She’s so friggin chilly. How am I supposed to make her happy if she won’t even give me the time of day?”

Roxy swivels significantly to face Jane. Both of you follow her gaze. Your sister’s standing by the window in the bright snowglare, chucking her charge’s chin, kissing him and talking, a constant stream of soothing babytalk blather. She doesn’t even notice she’s being watched.

“I wonder,” Roxy says.

“Huh.” Jake mulls over that for a minute before he gets distracted. “So what’s this little half pint’s name?”

“Dunno yet,” you answer. “We’re shooting for L-something.”

“Lara? No? How about Luna? It’s a wizard’s name, too.”

“Wasn’t that one of the cats from Sailor Moon? No thanks!” Roxy makes a face at you, and you remember that she actually likes wizards and not – as Rose used to believe – just ironically. Oops.

Soon after, Jake leaves to deposit the kittens in more neutral territory, hopefully out in the barn. Before he goes, he promises Roxy he’ll think about what she said.

She snorts disdainfully at his back as he leaves. “Jane wouldn’t know what to do with a boyfriend if she had one. I bet you twenty bucks she forgets all about Jake as soon as she gets knocked up,” she says out of the side of her mouth.

You find yourself hoping that you never get on her bad side, because she’s sure got a fiendish way of getting revenge.

Dirk comes in just as you finally feel like you’re getting somewhere with the names.

Both of you are warming up to Lucy, which is neither a wizard’s name, nor a video game character, nor a beautiful and highly talented actress. It’s a girl from a book, one who embodies the epitome of grace and innocence and badassitude all together. It’s perfect.

“What about her brother?” Dirk asks. There aren’t any good L-names for boys in Narnia. Finally, Roxy comes up with Leon, reasoning that it means lion and Aslan is a lion and Aslan is Lucy’s friend and protector, so that works, right? Right?

Leon. It sounds very noble and manly. “Yeah, okay. Leon. I can do Leon.” She beams you a smile, the first real smile you’ve seen from her since the babies came, and turns to Dirk.

“Do you want to hold baby Lulu for a minute?” she asks him. He helps her manage the transfer and watches her swing out the door before bringing his bemused smirk to bear on you.

“I gather she didn’t tell you that Leon is the main character in Final Fantasy VIII.”

“What?” Oooh, she is _sneaky_.

“Yeah. And Lulu is a magic user from X. She got you, dude.”

“ROXY!” You can hear her laughing all the way down the hall. In Dirk’s arms, Lulu coughs wetly.

* * *

Roxy’s victory celebration is short-lived. That night, the twins worsen as the temperature outside dips back below freezing and the air goes all dry and static-y. Kanaya instructs you to breathe gently into the babies’ mouths every few minutes, just like performing CPR, and it turns out that she doesn’t think being Heir of Breath gives you much of an advantage because she gives Roxy the same spiel.

The wind is rising, Jane is pacing, Kanaya’s fiddling and you’re just trying to breathe, but Dirk’s got the worst of it, because he’s trying to talk Roxy down from an epic freak-out.

“Calm, Rox, just breathe. Relax. Everything’s going to be okay, alright?” She rolls her head, some kind of mashup of _yes_ and _no_ , and bends to give your daughter another puff of air. Her hand flutters to take the baby’s pulse while Lulu tries to spit up a gob of something thick and yellow.

Leon’s not faring much better. He’s fussy and off-color, and when his chest moves it makes rapid, jerky motions. Kanaya comes by to take his temperature. It’s 101.

“That’s not too bad, right?”

She brings you a basin with some lukewarm water and a washcloth. “Even a low fever can be very dangerous for an infant this young. Why don’t you try to sponge him down? Don’t soak him. Squeeze out most of the water first.” She joins Roxy and Dirk over her other patient.

Jane comes over to help with the bath, whispering, “What’s wrong with Roxy?”

“She’s freaking out. She’s been saying crazy things, like she’s convinced she’s going to kill the babies. It’s just a paranoid delusion, but it’s taken root in her head somehow.”

Jane pauses. “That’s strange. She told me about a nightmare she had while she was pregnant, that the baby was going to kill _her_. She said it was going to have eight arms…” She trails off, her eyes wide, and you can almost hear what she’s thinking: two babies with eight limbs between them.

“Well, they’re not monsters, are they? They’re just normal preemies. Ten fingers, ten toes, and not a cleft palate between them. Besides, how are they supposed to kill her if she kills them first?” Jane pinches you for joking, and yeah, you kind of deserve it, but the whole thing is just so absurd.

“You need to start taking this seriously, John. Roxy does,” Jane says firmly.

Behind her, Dirk and Roxy are arguing quietly: Roxy wants to leave, convinced she’s doing more harm than good; Dirk wants her to stay and help bathe Lulu. The baby’s temperature’s 104, it sounds like, and even Dirk sounds a little anxious, but the worst of it is the sound your daughter is making.

Nothing. Not a wail, not a cough, not a labored breath. Nothing at all.

“No, no, Dirk – help –“ Roxy’s voice rises in panic as her gimp arm waves helplessly. Dirk bends to breathe into your daughter’s mouth, pinching her nostrils shut with thumb and forefinger, then pulls back just a little to listen for breathing. She’s purple at the lips. Nothing. Pulse – nothing.

“Oh my god! Oh my god,” Roxy says, “I can’t handle this. I told you what would happen! I told you!” Her voice rises to a shriek as she shoves the lifeless bundle at Dirk, and the four of you just stand there, stunned, as she sprints toward the door in her bare feet and vanishes.

There should be a sound effect, a _pop_ or _whuff_ or something, but there’s nothing. She’s just gone.

Dirk curses, and you couldn’t be in more perfect agreement. Jane relieves him of his armful so he can flashstep to the hall, yelling, “Roxy! Wait up!” His voice grows distant as he moves to the stairwell, but you can still hear him roaring her name without answer, down the stairs and out into the yard.

Terezi sticks her head in. “What’s all the commotion? Don’t you know that some of us need our beauty sleep?”

Kanaya thinks faster than either of you. “Go down to the gate, Terezi, Roxy has run away. Go _now!_ ” She scrambles away, slipping on the smooth floor, chased by Kanaya’s command: “Don’t let her leave!”

Just then, blue light ripples across the walls, followed by an infant’s cry. Jane’s doing her thing, and thank god for that.

Kanaya leaves to rouse everyone else. She wants to put guards on the kitchen, in case Roxy decides to raid the pantry, and send out a search party to scour the grounds. Unfortunately, the weather’s reaching whiteout conditions. If they don’t find her soon, they might not find her at all.

Dirk returns to the nursery to find you and Jane curled up side by side, ministering to your respective charges. He doesn’t have news, though.

“Good thinking, whoever stuck Terezi watching the gate. Maybe she caught something we didn’t.” He slings his long coat over his shoulders and heads back for the door.

“Where are you going? Where did you get snowshoes?” you demand.

“Jake’s room,” he answers all out of order, “and I’m going out to look for her.”

“Why don’t you warm up for a minute? Terezi won’t let her leave. She’s probably hiding somewhere in the house.”

Dirk laughs darkly at that. “John, she can walk through walls if she puts her mind to it. She’s long gone.” And, in a moment, so is he.

Jane snuggles closer to you, warding off the chill flooding the room. She whispers, “She’s a cave woman. She’s a survivor. She’ll be _fine_ ,” and you’d believe her if only she sounded like she believed it herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is a very, very long Jane chapter. Very long.
> 
> Theme for Roxy: ["Bang Bang" - Nancy Sinatra](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T5Xl0Qry-hA)


	14. Jane: Abide.

Day one. You’re already running low on milk for the babes.

What do they think they’re going to do? Feed the poor things goat’s milk? That sounds like a recipe for colicky catastrophe. You should know, you’re the freaking nutritionist!

Karkat brings Gamzee by, as promised, and you take the opportunity to pass Leon off (“I’d rather drink globesweat from a teacu – _what the fuck is that smell?”_ ) and take your friend out into the hall for a little talk.

“A sister knows all she’s got to do is up and ask a thing,” Gamzee purrs, his back a comma-shaped comfortable slouch that brings his face down to a level that _still_ puts a crick in your neck if you stand too close. Terezi’s smell-o-vision must be her saving grace. You’d wonder how they managed to conduct their turbulent hatemance if you hadn’t watched the diminutive troll climb her boyfriend like a ladder.

“Thank you, Gamzee, it means a lot to hear you say something like that.” He folds your hands in his own, twice the size, and squeezes them briefly. He’s always gentle; he knows his size is a liability. “I would never ask unless it was urgent…”

He tilts his head. “Whatever solid it is that’s needing, if a motherfucker has it, it’s given, girlie.” No one’s ever called you “girlie” but Gamzee; it’s just another entry in his ever-growing library of endearments. Well, you don’t mind the pet names, and you can tolerate the language, even when every other word out of his mouth is a curse. There isn’t a drop of anger in him – or if there is, he spends it all on Terezi. Karkat could take a page out of his moirail’s book once in a while. It would do him some good.

You take a deep breath and decide to make a break for the finish line. “How attached are you to your sopor?” He makes his pie on Mondays like clockwork; he used to bake three or four a week, but he’s down to one now, nibbling at a single slice a day, trying to stretch the grist cache to its limit.

“It greases the gears all up ins,” he answers amiably, his warm eyes as yet untinted by plum, in contrast to Karkat’s red-ringed irises. _Not in any hurry to grow up, baby doll,_ he says, which is a joke because up is the direction he’s growing most rapidly. “If my sweet wants the allowance for her own self, a throwdown with a motherfucker’s better half is called for.”

Your face falls. You thought you might bypass Karkat by getting Gamzee to ask Rose himself, but it sounds like that’s not an option. The grouch isn’t going to like this one bit.

Sigh… His reaction is just as you expected.

“You can take the odious rag you call a sponge and jam it into the orifice of your choice if you think you’re laying a finger on Gamzee’s sopor allowance,” he spits over the baby’s shoulder.

“But –“

“’But’ what, you meddling lunatic? You think this is some kind of schoolfeeding exercise? You think we get do-overs if we fuck this up? Last time I let him go off his pie _people died._ And I’m not talking about your sterile bureau-fucking-cratic hanging. Kanaya was cleaning Nep off the _walls_!”

“Where were you?”

“Coughing my fucking breath sponges into the gaper, where else?” His mouth twitches at the memory of bile. “I can only imagine what she had to do to get it out of her clothes.”

“Drinkers got to motherfucking drink,” the big troll rumbles, unfazed by Karkat’s rant. His moirail could be talking about strangers, for all he seems to care; there’s nary a ruffle in sight. The very idea of this gentle giant transmuting into some kind of homicidal freak is preposterous.

“What are you going to do if he goes after your wigglers when I’m not around? What about when _you’re_ not around? You think all hell’s going to break loose when it’s most fucking convenient for everybody?” He hitches the infant higher against his chest, resuming a rhythmic patting motion like he was hatched to burp babies, and you take a moment to silently thank Jade for making him cut his nails.

“What are you going to tell John when you’re bringing his kids back to him in pieces?” Karkat asks darkly. “What are you going to tell him if you can’t kiss it and make it better?”

“Ain’t got a reason to be whaling on wigglers,” Gamzee inserts casually.

Karkat shoots him a glare. “Please shut up, you’re not helping.”

“Helping a sister get her ask on, is what. All my beloved has to do is open his motherfucking hear ducts and give a listen.”

You leap into the breach. “Karkat, babies need milk. They’re not like trolls at all, they’re extremely delicate at this stage! They could die or get very sick if they don’t get the right nutrition. I know you won’t let that happen.” You hold your breath, hoping it’s true.

“On Alternia we culled the weak,” Karkat replies nastily.

“On Alternia we culled the lowblooded sinful before they up and kicked it their own selves,” Gamzee counters in a peaceful tone.

Karkat lets out a strangled curse, shuddering like something awful just crawled up his spine. “Leave me out of this, jackoff.”

“Rose hasn’t Seen any threat to the babies from Gamzee,” you tell him, deliberately neglecting to mention her paranoid warnings. Your words give Karkat pause.

“…She hasn’t?” he hazards thoughtfully. He puts a lot of faith in Rose’s talent – perhaps more than strictly warranted. He’s actually pretty much her staunchest supporter, which is a bit surprising given his ambitions. John says it’s because he thinks he’s a fuckup and doesn’t want to be the one responsible if something goes wrong, but that’s rank cowardice, in your opinion. Rose makes policy, but Karkat’s the one breaking his back on the implementation. He’s going to work himself to an early grave and refuse to take credit with his dying breath.

You respect his ability and dedication. His attitude just needs a little work.

“Let’s go see what Rose says,” you plead. He jerks his head irritably and turns to plod down the hallway, trying not to jostle his sleepy bundle. You pretend not to notice that he hasn’t tried to give Leon back yet.

Rose wants to know what Gamzee thinks about your proposal. He doesn’t seem to feel strongly one way or the other – “A motherfucker can’t be all hoarding and hogging when sharing is the thing needing doing.” His grammar is nightmarish, but who cares? You squeeze him as hard as you can, hugging a happy chuckle out of his chest.

Rose reminds Karkat that Gamzee was going to have to give up sopor sooner or later. He doesn’t like it, but there it is. The grist is yours. And for your part, you promise to dust off the gristwidget and see if you can do something useful with it.

The problem with the lousy gristwidget is that if you feed it something worthless, it spits out a pittance of grist, if that. You were using it for garbage disposal, but the yield was so low – hardly enough to replace the card it shredded – that it wasn’t worth the effort. And you don’t have a way to replace anything of real value, so you can’t just start cannibalizing your personal belongings for short-term gain.

No matter. These are Rose’s terms, so you and John will put your heads together and see what you can come up with. And the net is that the babies will have a fighting chance without their mother.

Even the wildcat screaming fit that Terezi throws about your bargain doesn’t put a dent in your mood, though Karkat looks decidedly disturbed when Rose takes her aside for a “chat” (which you’ve never had the joy of experiencing, thank goodness.)

Rose knows what she’s doing, you tell yourself, maybe a little smugly. You downplay Terezi’s outburst – she’s probably just upset that no one consulted her before cutting her kismesis off from his mood-altering substance. With Leon in your custody, you float back to John’s room on the wings of success to share the happy news with your brother.

He thanks you without turning away from the window. Lucy blinks at you over his shoulder.

* * *

Week one. Dirk comes home, without Roxy.

He’s got something else, though.

He strides through the gate, shoulders bent under his burden, giving Terezi a nod when she wrinkles her nose at him. You skid to a stop beside him, but he keeps going, duster swirling around his ankles; he gestures with his chin for you to follow. By the time he reaches his destination – the barn, which was once the little lodge where you lived cheek by jowl, now home to a herd of goat things and two yellow panther cubs – he’s surrounded by curious onlookers.

He lays the beast down in the hay and wipes a wrist across his forehead, pulling his hair out of his eyes but smearing a streak of dust in its place. The coffee-colored creature immediately tries to stand, looking like a giraffe on its gangly stick-thin legs as it noses about for its mother.

“Would you look at that motherfucking miracle,” Gamzee says, squatting to watch the spectacle with his forearms propped on his knees.

“What the dickens is it?” Jake asks.

“Hoofbeast,” Aradia supplies promptly.

“Horse,” Dirk shoots back.

You struggle to put a name to the animal in front of you. “Griffin, maybe? It’s not a horse, Dirk, look at its mouth.” The foal has a hooked upper lip, like a beak – in fact, its whole head looks a little vulturish. You study it as it wobbles around the stall. The hindquarters are all equine, you’ll give him that, but there’s something about the way it moves in the front, something wrong with the way the knee bends – it bends _backwards_ , and when it lifts its feet its knobby toes are splayed out like an ostrich’s. And then it loses its balance – it stumbles and throws out two enormous _wings_ to steady itself –

“That is _not a horse_ ,” you repeat emphatically.

“Close enough,” he shrugs.

“Where’s the dam?” Jake wonders aloud. Dirk opens his mouth, but you can read the answer on his face – dead, of course it’s dead, it probably starved to death foaling out of season, the poor thing – but you give a little scream of frustration because no one, not even you, has asked the most important question.

“Dirk, where’s Roxy?”

“Dunno,” he answers in the middle of pulling off his coat, folding it lengthwise and laying it across the stall door. “Not a trace. I guess she could drink snowmelt, but hell if I know how she’s staying warm.” Gamzee is cautiously petting the thing’s skeletal head.

“Well, she does have the kitten, maybe they’re cozying up?” suggests Jake. When all eyes land on him, he cringes a bit under their weight – yours most of all, you think. “The black one went missing when Roxy hit the trail. There used to be three of the little buggers. Didn’t I tell you?”

“No,” you answer in a withering tone.

“It must have slipped my mind,” he giggles weakly.

“Okay, so she’s barefoot, cold, hungry, and probably invisible, but at least she has a cat,” Dave says with a straight face. “Yeah, we don’t need to worry at all,” he tosses over his shoulder, turning to follow Jade out. You do the same, glaring at Dave’s back as he slips out into the daylight.

“Wait, Jane,” Dirk calls after you. You halt in your tracks, hoping against hope that he has something more, some clue, to tell you where your bestie’s gone or when she’s coming home.

“What do you think it eats?” he asks.

“Oh, god, who cares?” you snap back.

You and your brother had been counting on him to bring Roxy home. So much for that. You know he’s more concerned than he sounds – he’s spent his whole life looking out for her, for christsakes, why would he let her down now if there was anything he could do to help? Mostly, you envy his ability to compartmentalize.

To be fair, he’s had a lot of practice. You can’t expect someone with a biography like Dirk’s or Roxy’s to handle adversity the same way as other people. It still amazes you, though, that their mindscapes are such different places. Roxy immersed herself in daydreams, fleshing out and flat out reinventing her history and persona; little did you know that her gregarious banter was concealing a profound unhappiness. Dirk, by contrast, is firmly grounded in his cold equations, unsentimental to a fault, but this, too, was a survival strategy. Obsessing over Roxy’s disappearance is neither rational nor pragmatic. His energy is better spent on other things… like, apparently, adopting orphaned wildlife.

When you emerge, squinting into the snow-white glare, Jake’s waiting for you. He’s shivering against the wall of the shed because (of course) he doesn’t own any real pants, just a dozen slightly different pairs of cargo shorts. You almost pass him by – but he calls your name, and you just can’t make yourself do it.

“What do you want, Jake?” you ask him tiredly. You don’t have time for more bumbling apologies; you need to get back upstairs to John and the twins.

“Just to shoot the breeze for a minute. I mean, I’m on tenterhooks about Roxy, and I’m sure you are too, but I wanted to ask you… What’s the worst that could happen?”

“She could die out there.” An image comes to you, pencil and watercolors – an illustration out of a book of stories you used to own, a waif dressed in rags, huddled in the falling snow. Her eyes are bright, but her lips and toenails are bruised blue by the cold, and if you remember your fairy tales correctly, she doesn’t survive the night. Try as you might, you can’t imagine Roxy in her place.

“Sure,” Jake replies. “She could starve, or freeze to death, or get eaten up by some fearsome beast, or fall in a hole and break her lovely gams, or brain herself on a rock –“

“Oh my god, Jake!” You press the heels of your hands into your eyes until the little match girl whites out. “What’s your fucking point?”

“I just think we’re going about this all wrong. We’re acting like she ran away to find a place to die, like a creaky old mutt that crawls up under the porch when it gets too sick to down its tucker.”

He’s right. Roxy didn’t run away just to die in a tragic accident. The worst thing that could happen, the thing you haven’t admitted even to yourself, is that she might try to kill herself. Whether she opens her wrists or jumps in the river or just closes her eyes and lets the cold in, it’s all the same.

“Suicide,” you whisper, and the word that was slithering across the surface of your brain moves out to crawl through your skin. You clutch your arms close to your chest. Jake, recognizing your distress, cautiously lays his hands on your arms – too leery of your temper to try to embrace you, but an invitation, nonetheless.

“Janey,” he says urgently, “Janey, listen.” You raise your eyes to his face, teeth chattering. He’s as earnest as you’ve ever seen him, and hell, his eyes still laser right through you. You feel the need to slap yourself until you either forgive him or lay your hankering to rest, because love is obviously a form of temporary insanity.

“Janey, she took the cat. She took the cat! If she was really chewing over something like that, why would she take the blasted cat?”

“But – oh,” you stutter, blushing, because you shouldn’t need Jake friggin’ English to help you second-guess your best friend, but he’s right, he’s totally right, no matter how bleak it got Roxy wouldn’t drag a poor kitten out into the wilderness only to leave it to shiver itself to death in the snow.

Bowing your head, you lean in, resting your forehead on Jake’s shoulder as the ice around your heart begins to melt. He rubs your arms, light but brisk, and even shin-deep in the snowfall, it starts to feel a little warmer.

* * *

Month one. Jake asks you out to dinner for Quadrantide.

His idea of a date is roasting game over a campfire in the corner of the grounds, as far from the house as you can get without actually crossing the wall. He wraps rabbit and potatoes in tin foil and drops them in the coals to bake. When you get tired of waiting in the cold and the dark for the food to be ready – turns out it takes a while for a wood fire to heat up, and he really didn’t build it big enough in the first place – you pour yourselves mugs of hot chocolate and break open the last bag of marshmallows and take turns scaring each other silly with ghost stories.

What starts out an awkward and standoffish sort of date moves through a phase of screams and laughter followed by feeding each other with your fingers (of course he forgot to bring utensils, did you expect anything less?) and ends up with you curled practically in his lap and being kissed breathless. The whole thing is so poorly planned and perfectly Jake and just… perfect. You don’t regret saying yes for a single moment, except maybe at the very beginning.

The next morning, you tell John that you and Jake are going to give it a go. He doesn’t look particularly thrilled, but he offers his congratulations and promises to kill Jake a second time if you need him to. You inform him politely that you appreciate the thought, but all in all, there are better ways to deal with relationship problems than sending your brother on a manhunt.

You’ve been asked to do something about the fact that Gamzee keeps baking inedibly chewy loaves of bread, so you beg off babysitting to give him some pointers. “Aunt” Rose volunteers to take your place, which seems like a thinly-veiled attempt to spread her propaganda behind your back – but no, John assures you that she probably just wants to show him how to fold diapers more efficiently or something.

The kitchen – as you expected – is a disaster zone of dirty dishes, food scraps and empty wrappers – predominantly packages of sugar. He’s pretty much out of white sugar, using canned fruit and honey to sweeten things now. He’s also been blazing a blue streak through your father’s boxed cake mix collection (and John’s, although anything from his dad’s pantry is really stale by now).

At this point, you’re resigned to raiding Dirk and Roxy’s larders, which were already pre-stocked with nonperishables for the apocalypse. Well… winter is nearing its end and groundbreaking has already begun on the west slope, though the earth is barely thawed. Soon, soon you will have fresh ingredients again. Jade promised.

Chatting with Gamzee always cheers you up, but today the experience is tainted by having to watch him demolish your kitchen as he treads his well-worn paths, strewing mayhem. There, on top of the fridge, is the oubliette where lost items accumulate; here is the pile of flour crumbles where he habitually dusts off his hands. The sink is encrusted with batter, the flagstones make sticky noises when you cross in front of the pantry door, and every flat surface is occupied by countless bowls, baking pans and cutting boards, each in a state of recent use. The only things remaining where they belong are the measuring cups, and you can guess why.

You remind yourself, sternly, that you’re not here to tell Gamzee how to run his kitchen, just to offer your assistance. But there’s no harm in tidying things up a bit.

You greet his hunched back – he’s bent over a cutting board, kneading dough – and begin to quietly gather dirty dishes. The last thing you want is to embarrass or offend him, if such a thing were even possible.

“Morning, sweet thing!” he answers without pausing. “Wingbeasts are singing, green stuff is fuckin’ sprouting, and now my favorite baby girl up and treats me with her self-same being. How’s it going, little bluebird?”

“Chicken, more like,” you giggle, arms full of mixing bowls, “the way I’ve been clucking over these eggs.” Seriously, though! Motherese is practically your second language.

“If I had a clutch as precious as those wigglers of yours I wouldn’t let them out of sight,” Gamzee says. “Count ‘em up and tuck ‘em away safe.”

“Maybe you’ll have wigglers of your own soon!” you exclaim. “The mother grub is due to hatch in a few months. When can we expect to welcome a little Pyrope-Makara into our house?”

He chuckles warmly. “That’s a long ways away, sweet. First the mother’s got to hatch, then she’ll get herself grown up, and when she’s primped all fancy she’ll send her motherfucking drones to come and collect…”

“What are the drones like?”

“All I know is they’re filled on up with her voice, no panspace left for thinking. Like those motherfucking miracle shells you can press all close on your face and be hearing the ocean sound.”

“Oh, I always thought of them like… government agents. Anonymous spooks in suits and dark glasses. So they’re not trolls at all?”

“Could be. Guess we’ll know when they come all by, yeah?”

Curious. It must’ve been strange not to have adults around to explain things. “Alright, so the drones come, then what?”

“They gather up buckets what’re saved away, and take off.”

“That’s it? They just come and leave again and that’s all there is?”

He shrugs. “Somewhere maybe there’s a wiggler with your design all on his motherfucking spirals.”

“But you never get to meet him?”

“Naaaah,” he says, drawing the word out. His crazy curls bounce as he shakes his head.

“Oh.” You start filling the sink, pondering this twist. “Doesn’t that make you sad?”

“Not a bit, little sister. Always been that way.”

Rolling up your sleeves, you plunge your hands into the soapy water. “That’s not going to work at all,” you announce with conviction. “There’s no lusus here for them, they won’t make it on their own. We’ll have to raise them ourselves.”

“Nah.” He’s still manhandling the bread dough, leaning into each vindictive knead like it badmouthed his moirail. “The struggle’s the biggest motherfucking piece of the pie. If the little larvae can’t do it themselves, they’re not motherfucking supposed to.”

“The ‘trials.’ Right. How many baby trolls actually make it to the surface, Gamzee?”

“One in ten. Maybe a pair, in a good sweep.” Dropping the dough into a pan, he shoves the whole thing into the oven bare-handed. His hard tone surprises you, but you can’t catch sight of his expression past the curtain of curls dangling over his face. You ought to find him a hair net if he always cooks like this. A scrunchie, at bare minimum.

“It’ll take forever at that rate!”

“What will, baby girl?” he asks, lazily running his fingers through the flour layered on cutting board.

“Reestablishing your race! Isn’t that the whole reason we’re here?”

He finally turns to look at you, his face smeared with white streaks. He cups your face in his enormous paws, tracing your cheekbones with his powdery fingers.

“Sister, we destroyed or enslaved every motherfucking race we ever encountered, including yours,” he tells you bluntly. His customary lackadaisical mode of speech is suddenly no longer in evidence. The way he blinks – aggressively crushing his eyelids together – brings to mind the noise a piano makes when you mash on the keys at random. “We get up in the evening and go to work killing, then we come back to our hives and kill for fun. When we run out of enemies, we start in on our friends. I’m not motherfucking sure you want to bring us back from the brink. The more I think about it, the more I feel like we need to be made the mother fuck extinct.” His voice rises to a grating shout, thumbnails gouging your cheeks.

“Ow!” The pain brings tears to your eyes. You yank yourself back as he rubs at his eyes, adding white rings to the rest of the mess coating his face. Filled with concern, you watch him grimacing unhappily. “Is everything all right, Gamzee? You’re worrying me.”

“My spitfire girl’s been giving me trouble,” he mutters.

Poor thing. If love hurts – it damn well does, you can vouch for that – hate’s got to be twice as rough. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry to hear that. Did you have a fight?”

“What kind of spademates would we be if we didn’t get all up in motherfucking arms over motherfucking nothing?”

Um. Are you supposed to be worried or not? Blackrom is so confusing. You offer a bland, un-presumptive “What seems to be the problem?” as you fish around in the dishwater for the scrub brush.

“She wants to be what she motherfucking can’t. She wants us all to be. _Motherfucking human._ ” He smiles, terribly, every fang bared and shining white, and reaches for your face. He pinches your cheeks, stretching your lips wide.

“Smile all pretty and sad, girlie,” he says through his teeth, “but don’t bleed pity for the likes of us.”

You abscond, shaking.

Upstairs, you find Terezi changing into her working clothes. She’s got a tornado-sky-colored bruise that engulfs one eye socket and stretches across her temple to the hairline. Her left eye is ugly and swollen shut. She sneezes when you approach.

Without preamble, you confront her. “Did Gamzee do that to you?”

She takes a deep breath, drawing the air noisily through her nose, and takes you by the hand, pulling you in front of her mirror. Despite the film of dried saliva that makes you look like you’re underwater, you can make out the pattern smeared in white across your face, the pinpricks of blood welling on the ball of each cheek. Terezi’s glasses flash as she tilts her head, sensing your body tense.

“Did Gamzee do that to you?” she repeats your words back to you quietly.

“Terezi,” you breathe, unable to tear your eyes away from the mirror, “we have a problem.”

“You think?!” Her grip tightens, squeezing the bones in your hand together.

The cruel surety in her voice makes you gulp. “What do we do now?”

“Kill him!” she laughs harshly. She comes to an abrupt stop when you round on her in surprise. “Just kidding! We can’t kill him. We can’t do anything. We are fucked!”

Could it be true? Do you trust the skewed perspective of her aspect? While Rose’s vision is a potent tool – quite literally the instrument of your victory over Lord English, frighteningly efficient at dismantling the black box of chance – Terezi’s is a double-edged sword. The prescient power of the blind troll’s Sight is at the mercy of the currents of her own mind, feeding back on itself, inducing the worst sort of tunnel vision: the kind that strips away free will.

“No. That can’t be right. Let’s talk to Karkat,” you beg her.

“Karkat is already doing everything he can! He tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen!”

You feel your face going numb with fear. Not for yourself – death won’t stick, it never does – but for the twins, so small and defenseless, bereft of even the meager protection afforded by the requirements of the alpha timeline. “How could Rose let this happen?” you ask dully.

“She has a ‘plan,’” Terezi says in a bitter voice, her claws hooking in midair to make the quotation marks.

“You don’t think it will work.”

“Oh, it will work! I just don’t like it.” Turning her head to the side, she growls softly, “Some prices are too high.”

There’s got to be _something_ you can do to stop this! “Can’t we just send him away?”

“No good. He comes back when the matriorb hatches.” She pulls her glasses to the end of her nose to squint one ruby carbuncle in your direction. “I have a plan too, you know,” she enunciates carefully, and presses her tongue against the tips of her upper fangs. You feel… judged.

You think of the tired old fable of Rose’s first foiled martyrdom – and, to a lesser extent, your own first encounter, when she used her grimdark connection to take a dangerous prank way too far. You think of her hand in the last stand of the ghosts, and of the price she’s willing to pay for victory: a price that, time and again, proves to be too much to bear.

You find yourself standing straighter as Terezi appraises you. Her chin rises in approval.

“What can I do to help?” you ask her.

“Keep him talking,” she answers grimly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“He doesn’t have any reason to hurt you, so when he flips, just get out of the way.”

She doesn’t say _if_. “Yes.”

“It might be scary, and it won’t be pretty.”

“I’ll be ready.”

She nods. “I know you will,” she says, pushing her red glasses back in place. “Tell John. The kids won’t be in danger, if everything goes according to plan.”

“Okay,” you nod to yourself, “okay.” You take a deep breath.

“Smile!” Terezi tells you sharply, a disturbing echo of Gamzee’s words. “You’ll do great.”

“Okay,” you say again. “Here I go.”

When you head back downstairs to face the troll you thought you knew, your face is clean, your head is high, and your resolve is firm. You greet Gamzee with a hard smile.

* * *

Month two. The first reactor fails.

It does so spectacularly, with a massive _pop_ and an eruption of sparks visible from the second floor windows. John goes downstairs to, apparently, fiddle with/kick at the busted nuclear-powered box alongside Karkat and Jade. (Jade’s doing about nine-tenths of the fiddling, Karkat’s doing three-quarters of the kicking, and John is mostly just standing there looking thoughtful. He did nudge it with his foot a couple of times, though.) After a few minutes, Gamzee wanders outside to figure out why the stove stopped working, but he quickly loses interest. Eventually Jade retrieves another green hub from the depths of her sylladex and installs it. The crowd disperses.

All except John. He’s still hovering over the reactor bank with his arms folded and his head bowed. You can’t see his expression from the nursery window, but judging by his body language, you imagine it’s pretty intense.

He spends the rest of the afternoon doodling in his notebook with the front cover positioned for maximum secrecy. He won’t divulge what he’s working on, but he does answer every one of Lucy’s coos, making up a silly, one-sided dialogue with her as he goes along. So far he’s explained continental drift, why Bill Watterson stopped making Calvin and Hobbes comics, and the plot of _Twister_.

Leon is, of course, invited to participate, but thus far he has declined to utter so much as a single syllable, earning him an early reputation as the “strong but silent” type.

Later, Terezi swings by to make faces at the children and get your report on Gamzee. The meeting is short. He’s creepier some days than others, but, so far, the flour incident was the worst of it. He maintains that trolls are too dangerous to coexist with humans – no death threats or anything of that nature, though. In fact, it’s not clear that he’s actually referring to anyone besides himself.

Terezi refuses to talk about his beef with her. Apparently it’s rude to pry into the details of someone’s caliginous quadrant? Makes sense, you guess. Your kismesis is supposed to be the only one who can hit you where it really hurts, so, in a backwards way, it’s their job to protect your secrets. If your weakness is so blatant that it’s public knowledge, the culling drones won’t be far behind.

Yeah, you’re glad you’re not a troll.

Anyway, you would have stayed out of it on principle, except for the incongruity of his behavior. Fighting with his kismesis about being too human, while simultaneously lamenting the awfulness of trolls? It doesn’t make sense. However, you’ve been politely instructed to mind your own beeswax, at least as far as their kismesissitude is concerned.

You wish Terezi could tell you what, exactly, she wants to know. The only thing she’s been able to confirm is the importance of buying time – delaying any sort of meltdown as long as possible. Well, if he’s spiraling into madness, he’s doing so at an imperceptible rate.

It’s your turn to doze restlessly in the rocking chair while John gets the luxury of sleeping in his own bed, so you’re half-awake when Dave rousts Kanaya and her girlfriend out of bed in the early hours of the morning. You don’t follow – you’d just be in the way, especially with Rose there. Karkat, sneaking out of his room a little while later, comes to sit with you as he quietly shreds his clothing.

Kanaya ducks in around dawn to let you know that Jade has had a miscarriage.

She addresses you, but she’s speaking for Karkat’s benefit, shooting him a sympathetic look as she delivers the news. After she goes, he tucks his knees up under his arms and doesn’t move until John brings breakfast up.

John kindly and perceptively shares his bacon with his friend, reserving his questions until after Karkat leaves to get ready for work. After he visits with Jade, he asks if you’d mind taking the babies down the hall with you to keep his sister company. You question how happy Jade will be to be surrounded by infants at this particular juncture, and John crossly rescinds the request.

The rest of the morning is quiet, save for the quiet sobbing that occasionally makes its way to your ears. You sneak away to hold her hand for a few minutes while the twins are napping, but you don’t feel like you’re being much help.

Three and a half weeks later, when you figure out you’re pregnant, you spread the word quietly. For Jade’s sake, you refrain from making a big announcement.

When you inform Dirk, he makes an ill-considered joke (regarding the similarities between John and Jake’s… _ahem_ … virility) that almost makes you wish you hadn’t spent so much time hunting him down in the first place. He wasn’t where you expected to find him, out in the barn or holed up in his room working on his mysterious new project; he was actually sitting down with John, helping him hash out the inner workings of a wind turbine. Which, of course, makes his bad timing a hundred times worse.

Watching him put his foot in his mouth like that, especially directly after demonstrating that he can actually hold a normal conversation with John, is kind of like watching a toddler take his first step right into the neighbor’s pool. Your brother does what he always does when Dirk’s innuendo gets too heavy-handed: he leaves. Dirk looks at you like _this is all your fault_. You look at Dirk like _you have GOT to be kidding me_. Then he goes off to shovel horseshit or something, leaving you to contemplate the joys of motherhood alone.

Eventually, you remind yourself that you should probably tell Jake at some point too.

* * *

Month three. John’s building a windmill.

It wasn’t really clear what he was doing at first, because it started on the bluffs towering over the north wall – the same rocky outcroppings on whose foothills the big house is perched – as a pencil-straight, tornado-drilled well.

“Don’t worry!” Jade assured you. “He’s totally done this before.” It wasn’t particularly comforting at the time, but in the days since he started building, you’ve come to realize the truth that Jade, Dave, and Rose already take for granted: rules simply do not apply to John Egbert. Need a pump that runs on renewable energy to supply a houseful of people with fresh, clean water? (And potable, too – unlike the vomit-inducing Rio Punch currently running through the pipes!) Why not use the roaring air current that funnels through the same gap you used to cross the mountains, almost a year ago? Why not build the pump into a huge, old country-style tower mill, so big that it could hold every one of you twice over with room to spare? And since everybody’s busy with spring planting, why not just kind of… do it all yourself?

Of course, he needs Jade’s help with the masonry, and he’s got Dirk fashioning gears – but it’s amazing what a man with a hammer and no real sense of the impossible can accomplish in the space of a week.

He invites you up to the top of the hill to see it on your birthday. His birthday, too, of course – though, by your math, it’s been about seventeen Earth months since either of you last celebrated your birthday. Technically, it’s been over a year even by this planet’s calendar, but it would’ve been silly to have two birthdays a month apart.

It’s mind-boggling to think about how much extra time passes in the space of a year, here. You still have to do the conversion every time just to get a sense of scale. Suddenly you’re faced with a life expectancy a quarter shorter than it used to be. Which birthday is this, even?

John’s answer is, “Who cares?”

“Easy for you to say! What does age mean to someone who doesn’t stay dead?”

“I’m still getting older, though… Wouldn’t it suck to be thirteen forever?” He scratches at his scraggly half-bearded chin. “Do you think it’s going to slow down, or will we just keep going until our spines collapse?”

You shudder. “Somehow, John, I don’t think it’ll come to that. Sooner or later you’re going to do something that gets you killed permanently.”

He grins like a big cheesy idiot at your reply, and you realize you’ve inadvertently exposed a little piece of your inner portrait of John: the reckless action hero, all heart and no head, to whom _right_ and _good_ are standards to pursue and, when necessary, enforce.

Well. It’s true, isn’t it? There’s no law against hero-worshipping your own grandfather, nor for pointing out that he could stand to be a little more careful.

And then, as if to remind you that he’s actually pretty sharp about things that don’t involve self-preservation, he points out that it’s not entirely clear if _you_ can be killed permanently.

“This is your dream self you’re walking around in,” he says, pinching the fat of your upper arm. (Gamzee’s fault. Even though you painstakingly transcribed your recipes for him, he manages to sneak an extra five hundred calories into every meal.) “It already auto-revived once, didn’t it? We could off you right now and see what happens.”

“Let’s not. There’s no one to fix me if I don’t get back up,” you say, tossing your head, but you give him a smile to show you know he doesn’t mean it.

“Oh, god, what if you get stuck in a loop, and just die of old age over and over again?”

“Bite your tongue, blasphemer!” You try to cover his mouth, but only succeed in knocking him down; he’s laughing too hard to stand up straight anyway. After a moment, you join him on the ground, directing your gaze up at the wooden frame arching over your head.

“So… your girlfriend disappears, and you build a windmill.” You shake your head in wonder. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“Got to keep busy, you know? And this is something that helps everybody,” he answers, folding his arms behind his head.

“Something tells me that’s not all there is to it.”

He sighs. “I didn’t want to go all the way across the river to climb a freaking tree, so sue me.”

“Seriously?” You push yourself up on your elbow to glare at him. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. You can fly, John! Why do you need to climb trees?”

He drops his chin and gives you a mildly incredulous look, his eyes skeptical and a little squinty. He probably needs a new prescription, the poor thing. “No, not seriously!”

“Okay, then! What?”

“I just wanted… I don’t know, I just realized we don’t have anywhere to sit and think about stuff. You know? A quiet place, where you can go when you’re feeling happy or sad or scared. A place that’s bigger than the walls around it, where you can lose yourself…” He trails off wistfully.

“Like a chapel?” You and John are the only ones that went to church regularly, and you’re pretty sure you’re the only one who actually got anything out of it; John just went because his dad took him.

“Not a chapel, per se. More like a safe place.”

“A haven? A refuge?”

Making patterns with his hands as he thinks, he hisses through his overbite. “Ssss… Give me a minute, I’ll think of it. Anyway, I know it doesn’t look like much yet, but just wait! It’s going to be awesome.”

Raising his finger to the heavens, he points out features. “The walls are going to be stone, of course, so it’ll last for a while. There, and there, are the holes for big windows to let the light in, and this thing,” he claps a hand to the central post, thrusting out of the ground inches from his head, “this is what turns to bring up the water. It’ll come out of the spout there and get funneled into the pipe to the water tank. Since we’re at the top of a hill, the elevation difference will give us water pressure.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to do away with the spout? What if bugs get in?” He is _so_ not listening to you.

“The cap at the top will turn to bring the sails into the wind. Most of the time they’ll be facing that way,” he shoves his hand blindly over his head, towards the mountains, “but they can point any direction. I was going to play around with the design and see what works the best. Maybe I can make some improvements.”

He turns his head toward the evening sun. “When the breeze lines up right, the sails will make shadows that swing across the walls, and you’ll be able to come up here and listen to the wood and the wind and the water all together.” He closes his eyes. After a moment, you do too. You can almost hear the scrape of the screw turning lazily on its long axis, the low, groaning creak as the vanes sweep into motion.

It’s a wonderful idea, a windmill on a hill with a font of fresh water inside, a secret hiding in plain sight. You’re in love with it already.

“Do you think Roxy will like it?” he asks.

“Oh, yes,” you answer fervently, forgetting all of your disclaimers, your what-if-she-never-comes-backs. “She’ll see it from miles away, and she’ll know right away that it’s for her.”

His hand searches yours out, squeezes it like a lifeline, and you share your smiles, as like as siblings can be. “Happy birthday, Janey. Thanks for believing in me.”

Your chest gets all tight when he looks at you like that. You never knew how much you missed having John in your life until he showed up. “Thanks for giving me something to believe in.”

He stretches, his arms and legs rising from the floorboards before dropping again like weights. “We’d better head back down to the house before Dave starts rapping Mother Goose,” he chuckles.

It’s worse than you ever could have guessed, but it’s not Dave’s fault. Two words: Sock puppets.

And by “worse” you mean “better,” because Dave’s showing every sign of turning into one of those uncles who curries favor with children by enabling bad behavior. So thank god he turned them over to Dirk, who at least has a loose grasp on the principles of parenting – bizarre for a boy raised jointly by how-to manuals, the internet, and a ventriloquism dummy, but this is Dirk you’re talking about. If he doesn’t excel at anything he puts his hand to, he simply tries harder until he does.

…That actually goes a long way towards explaining why he can’t quit hassling John. Interesting. Perhaps a guided redirection of his efforts is in order, rather than trying to talk him out of it completely. To think he thought he’d be the one pulling the strings. Boys!

The twins are completely entranced by the poor man’s Kermit the Frog that Dirk has fabricated for their entertainment. When you compliment him, he complains that Kermit is too easy.

“All of his facial expressions are just shapes you can already make with your hands,” he says. “There’s no art to it. Anybody can do a passing Kermit.” He crumples his fist, producing a classic grimace that echoes the one on his own face.

Sigh. There’s no pleasing him, is there?

Putting the sock puppet away, he turns to John. “Happy birthday, Egbert. How’s the erection coming?”

“Oh god,” your brother groans.

“I wish you’d take me up on the offer to help you get the damn thing up.”

“Can we not do this today?”

“It’s a remarkable structure. Rearing against the sky like the fucking Washington Monument. A towering tribute to your enormous –“

“OUT!” John shouts, his hands balled into fists. Judging by the storm on his face, his birthday cheer is rapidly evaporating.

“– talent. I had no idea you were so good with your hands.” As you drive him away from the scene and out of John’s immediate vicinity, Dirk finishes over his shoulder at a shout: “Maybe you could show me a thing or two about pounding a hammer!”

“Dirk!” you squeak, gesticulating wildly with your open hands in lieu of actual verbiage, of which you presently have zip.

“What?” he asks innocently.

“You know he hates it when you talk to him like that!”

Dirk folds his arms, his tone suddenly brutally sharp. “His girlfriend did the same thing to me for years, and I don’t remember you chewing her out for it. Isn’t that a double standard?”

“And you did it to Jake! Don’t act like you’re the victim here!”

“Jake never had a problem with it.”

“Jake’s too dumb to realize when someone likes him! And you took advantage of –“ You stop short because Dirk’s sporting a wicked little smirk that looks totally out of place. The truth of your words hits you like an iceberg.

“Oh no. Oh, oh no,” you whimper helplessly, beginning to giggle. His smile deepens. “Oh god, he really is dumb, isn’t he?” you snicker into your cupped hands. “You know, the other day he didn’t want to have sex with me because he was afraid I would get pregnant again. Like, double pregnant.”

Dirk scrubs the back of a hand across his mouth, grinning. “It kind of makes sense. Isn’t that where twins come from?”

You snort, tossing your head. “Okay, so Jake’s not a good example, but the point still stands. What are you going to say to Roxy when John tells her about the stuff you’ve been saying to him?”

“’You’re welcome,’ for one, and ‘Sure you can watch’ for another. You know John and I getting together is a scene right out of her wildest porno fantasies. I’d be surprised if she hasn’t scripted it already.”

“That’s irrelevant! He’s asked you to stop! Multiple times. He put it in writing, Dirk! And you can’t pretend that you didn’t get the note because it’s _hanging on your freaking wall!_ ”

“I really need to frame it,” Dirk says fondly.

You have to make a special effort not to slap the cocky grin off his face. “You hated it when Roxy pulled this crap on you.”

“What I hated was hurting her feelings. This is completely different, see. John doesn’t give a shit about my feelings.”

“I wish you would give a shit about his!”

His slight height advantage is apparently not enough, so he braces himself against the wall so he can loom more effectively, lowering his voice as he does so.

“Look. Jake was a mistake. I know that now. We had nothing in common and, by the end, we could barely even stand to talk to each other.” He takes a deep breath, and you can see how much the admission hurts. He invested so much of himself in Jake, in being the one to whom Jake belonged. You did the same thing. You built yourself up around the boy, but he turned out to be – not rotten, exactly, but… soft. Unsound, unsuitable. Now that he’s your problem, his flaws are more glaring day by day.

“John is different. John’s not – will never be – a mistake,” he says, his tone sharp, and you find yourself agreeing in spite of yourself. He isn’t content to leave it at that, though, rattling off virtues like he has the textbook on attraction memorized. “He’s funny, he’s talented, he’s modest, he’s sharp as a tack, he’s confident, he’s generous, he’s tall, he’s finer than a hair plucked from a vicuña’s ass –“

“He’s Roxy’s,” you add, tiny llamas notwithstanding.

“He’s perfect, and nothing you can say will deter me from my mission to _tap that_.”

You close your eyes – mostly to escape Dirk’s burning expression – and adopt a defeated tone. “You’ll have more luck if you make friends before smothering him with overbearing advances,” you tell him, trying to make it sound like a reluctant admission instead of a last-ditch effort to save your brother from yet another barrage of sexually-charged commentary.

“…Yeah?” Dirk says, perking up hopefully.

“Um. Well, it couldn’t hurt. It’s not like you’re making any headway with your current strategy.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks!” he smiles, sounding positively upbeat. “Hey, I have a tip for you too.”

“You do?” you venture warily.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning in again, so close you can see straight through the tinted lenses to the streaks of warm honey radiating through his irises. “You ready?”

You nod, and he nods back, an exaggerated bobbing of his head.

“Dump that asshole,” he says, holding your eyes in lock. The hardness in his voice makes a stark contrast against his earnest expression. “You don’t need him, and he doesn’t deserve you. Cut him loose.”

Maybe it’s because you’re already nodding, maybe you’re caught up in Dirk’s conviction, but you tell him you’ll think about it.

You’re still thinking about it two weeks later – not too strenuously; your hours are filled with infants and their needs, you hardly have the time or energy for a boyfriend, much less bellyaching over a breakup – when the most amazing thing happens.

For the last month and a half, the matriorb has been incubating in a furnace, a kind of everburning pyre. You got Kanaya’s permission to use the intense heat generated by the bed of coals to experiment with making colored glass, so you have a front-row seat when the mother grub finally ruptures through her leathery casing and greets the world at large.

She doesn’t look like much, sort of an oversized maggot, with the same jointed legs and segmented thorax that trolls supposedly have before they pupate. But her voice… in such close proximity, even you can hear it, though it doesn’t seem to reach your brain through your ears. It goes straight to your synapses, impossible to block out even if you wanted to, and it sounds like music: a subtle melody in infinite variation that fills you with the inexplicable desire to compose.

Compose what? Something, anything, growing, _making_. You don’t know if she has the same effect on the trolls, or even your fellow humans; to you her song is that of your muse, but unmuddied by the glut of doubt that usually plagues your creative drive. It fills your mind with color and geometric shapes. The half-formed notion that seeded your mind on your birthday takes root with her encouragement, and you begin to understand what you’ll be using the stained glass for.

Before she’s even begun to clean away the transparent membranes webbing her cheeks, Kanaya appears. Throwing herself headlong out the kitchen door, she pauses to gather herself, straightening her dress and smoothing her hair, before approaching the newborn basking in the heat of the oven.

“Hello, Mother,” she says calmly, her eyes bright and joyful, dancing over a broad, insuppressible smile.

The other trolls tumble after her, bringing whatever living bodies were nearby when they heard the call: Rose trails Karkat and Aradia, followed shortly by Jade, and Dave lopes in after Terezi. The humans hang back while everyone else pushes forward to introduce themselves.

She answers their formality in a plangent voice that blinds you momentarily. When the pressure on the back of your eyeballs lets up, you beat a hasty retreat into the house.

Jade and Rose instantly flock to Dave, who has his hand plastered over his face, squeezing his temples. His shades dangle loosely from his fingertips.

“Get off me, I’m okay, I just need to go lie down.” He takes three steps toward the stairs and halts, swaying. Rose catches his arm before he falls.

“Jade, would you mind meeting us upstairs with some ice? Maybe a cup of water?” she murmurs. “Do you have any painkillers left, Dave?”

“I don’t want to take anything, I’m just going to throw it up,” he moans.

“Fine. Let’s try to make it to your room before breakfast makes a dramatic reappearance, shall we?”

As they disperse, Terezi peeks around the doorframe. “Is he okay?”

“I think the mother grub’s mindblast might have given him a headache,” you tell her. “No offense, but she’s kind of… loud.”

The blind troll grins toothily. “Kanaya’s having kittens trying to decide how to say ‘keep your voice down’ delicately.” She turns her head left and right as if looking for eavesdroppers – an entirely pointless gesture on her part – and asks you to check on Gamzee. “I would’ve thought he’d be here by now,” she imparts, quirking her eyebrows significantly, before yanking herself back out of sight.

The kitchen is silent other than your footsteps on the stone; Jade already left with the ice. Still, on a hunch, you call out, checking the pantry and the cellar door.

“Baby girl,” he answers from the shadows at the bottom of the stairs. You pick your way down in the dark to meet him.

“What are you doing in the basement without the light on?” you ask, unable to keep the concern out of your voice. You reach up and manage to snag the string on your first try by pure muscle memory.

“Terezi’s looking for you. The mother grub finally hatched! Can’t you hear her?” Her song is nothing more than a hum at the edge of your consciousness from this distance, but Karkat heard her all the way out in the fields. Surely Gamzee can sense her, even down here.

“Of course I can fucking hear her, she is motherfucking _loud_ as _shit_ ,” he snarls.

 _He won’t hurt me_ , you remind yourself, drawing courage from your charge: keep him talking. You approach the source of his voice. He’s jackknifed in an aisle between the last shelf of cans and the first one of dry goods.

He lifts his eyes to yours, and yes, there’s anger there, but fear too. “She is, isn’t she?” you laugh nervously. “Even I can hear her. Is she bothering you?”

“No, sister. Her sweet voice is as welcome as the nightfall,” he says in a sibilant whisper.

The silence stretches. You open your mouth.

“It’s the other one that’s tearing me the fuck up,” he says loudly, then drops back down. “She woke him up, and that motherfucker is _pissed_.”

“Who, sweetie? Who’s pissed?”

His jaw clenches tightly, and he squeezes his eyes shut, looking like he bit into a sour lemon. When the spasm passes, he works his mouth, swallowing, and touches his tongue with a hesitant finger, appraising it with a blank expression. He shows you the violet stain coating his fingertip.

“That’s okay, that’s fine, you don’t have to tell me, honey,” you coo, sliding to your knees next to him. “I want to help, tell me what you need.”

“Sopor,” he requests in a desiccated rasp. “That’ll put him back to bed.”

You spread your hands sadly.

He averts his eyes. “I want my moirail,” he mumbles.

“That, I can do,” you tell him, pressing your lips to his forehead. He curls forward until the base of one horn rests on the crown of your head. “Hold on, Gamzee,” you say. “I’ll get Karkat.”

* * *

Month four. John’s building turbines.

Work’s over for the day, and it’s gorgeous out, so a few of you decided to picnic out on the hillside under the cooling spring sky: partly cloudy with a chance of power tools. It gets a little dodgy under John’s perch when the breeze picks up.

He’s got six turbines up so far, lining them up like army ants along the highest parts of the bluff with the fat queen, the windmill, serenely overseeing them. Somehow he’s figured out how to gauge the patterns the wind makes across the ridge – the way the blades break up its laminar flow – to choose the optimal placement for each towering propeller.

Dirk helped out with the mechanical design, but he’s become steadily more scarce ever since he abruptly stopped hitting on your brother; he still pops by to snap pictures of the children every once in a while, but that’s it. He flatly refuses to risk his life trying to enact repairs at altitude, so John’s been doing most of the work himself. Honestly, you’d rather he climb trees.

Like right now – sneakers lined up on a narrow rung, balanced only by a hand against the slick metal. He’s rooting in an access panel over a hundred feet above the ground with a ratchet clenched between his teeth and wire cutters gripped in a thick leather gardening glove. John Egbert, everyone; take a moment for courteous applause.

He’s oblivious to the limelight; he doesn’t mean to show off, necessarily, it just… happens. Not that anyone’s really watching him that closely anyway – these days, it’s his kids who are the center of attention, which he likes just fine.

The children are well-behaved, for the most part, sleeping and eating when they’re supposed to, and they’re beginning to demonstrate their very distinct personalities. Lucy, the precocious one, already has the get-up-and-go to scoot herself a few inches across the ground to reach a block or stuffed animal, which invariably goes straight into her mouth. She’s currently in Jade’s lap, “dancing” (waving her arms, with help) to Dave’s soft singing. A minute ago he finished up _Fresh Prince of Bel-Air_ and moved straight into _Fraggle Rock_. (Her favorite song is _Mahna Mahna_ , especially when it comes fully loaded with both the monster voice and a game of peekaboo).

She’s got her father’s thick black hair, her mother’s lily-white skin, and Rose’s violet eyes. She can’t even crawl, and yet she already has the world at her beck and call: she is, predictably, daddy’s little angel.

Leon is quieter and less active than his sister, but not unengaged. He watches you – watches everything and everybody, including Lu – with owl-like vigilance, meeting surprises with a comically keen wide-eyed stare. He stoutly refuses to cling when picked up, and answers everyone but you with somber silence. According to Karkat, he’s the spitting image of John at his age, and growing like a weed, too; he’ll probably be at least half a foot taller than Lucy. His coloring is closer to John’s, but with sandy hair that’ll likely darken as he gets older. His eyes are grey and as clear as still water, but you’re still holding out for blue. Sometimes it takes a while for the color to settle.

Lucy’s beginning to fuss, so Dave’s peeling open her sippy cup to share some of his juice. Jade, perhaps tired of playing mommy, hands her over and throws herself backwards into the grass, arms spread wide as if preparing to embrace the firmament. The angle of the evening sun replaces the gigantic lenses of her glasses with two glowing discs.

Without warning, John’s glasses tumble out of thin air, landing in the grass next to her ear. Jade, sitting up, picks them up curiously and pushes back the brim of her hat. He waves guiltily at her, hanging upside-down from the platform by his knees.

Grinning, she reaches behind her head, detaching the cord that keeps her own specs from falling off when she’s working in the garden. The loops fit snugly over John’s ear pieces. You would ordinarily call your ecto-daughter a frivolous girl, but gardening is Serious Business, and thus requires Seriously Practical Accessories. She’s a strange creature.

Raising her finger like a gun, she braces her elbow and closes one eye. Between one moment and the next, the glasses disappear from their seat on the rumpled fabric of her sundress, transported instantaneously to the top of the turbine.

John unwraps the cord from the strut and dons his glasses again, cinching the clip to hold them in place. He shouts down something unintelligible, that Jade, her hands fanned around her mouth like a megaphone, answers with “You’re welcome!!!!”

Watching her antics impassively, Dave cranes down to whisper in the baby’s ear. She gives a half-formed laugh, bringing her hands together.

“Look! You can see the Dog Star!” Jade exclaims. She’s affixed names to each of the stars. All of her nomenclature projects are collaborative: Aradia, for instance, helped her label the map, and many of the constellations also reflect a distinctly trollish influence. The wildlife she leaves to Jake, forgiving his lack of imagination when he comes up with names like “goat things.” (No arguments from anyone else, either; goat things is pretty much what they are.) To her daily dismay, he never remembers to bring plant cuttings home for her to christen. One of these days, she says, she’ll stow away on one of his expeditions so that she can study the native flora.

She’s a wily one. You’re almost positive that the only reason she started picking out the shapes of Saturday morning cartoon characters in the night sky was so that her suggestions would sound downright reasonable when she started naming constellations for real.

The Dog Star, like its namesake, is the brightest star in the sky; however, this one has a distinctively greenish glow and adorns the throat of a celestial canine named Becquerel. Memorializing beloved pets is an infinitely better option than naming the constellations after horrorterrors, which was Rose’s idea – but even Llethscryg the Clammy might be preferable to Mr. Cringerpants, the Most Cutest Kitty in the Universe.

She still hasn’t decided what to name the planet. So far, she and Dave are bouncing back and forth the most idiotic ideas imaginable, mostly human names.

“Herman,” Jade offers.

“Eugene,” Dave counters.

“Bob!”

“You can’t call a planet ‘Bob,’” Dave says.

“Who made you king of Bob?” she misquotes right back.

“How about Australia?” he asks. “Think about it. This place is basically ripped straight out of a Crocodile Dundee movie. Everything here wants to kill us, it’s Peter Jackson’s dream come true. The genius who came up with Australia probably made bank off of the licensing fees.”

“I thought Australia was a real place. Like, 90% sure.”

Dave scoffs. “Have you ever been there?”

“No….”

“Do you know anyone else who has? Have you ever met an Australian?”

“Dave, if we go by who I’ve _met_ , that eliminates nearly everybody.”

“Hobbits. Kangaroos. Vegemite. Steve Irwin. Don’t tell me you believe any of that crap. The man was _stabbed through the chest by a stingray_.”

“Okay, fine, 70% sure. But Hobbits are from New Zealand. Which is _real_ ,” she says obstinately.

“’…Hmm hm-mm shiny new Australia,’” Dave half-sings. Lucy babbles happily back at him.

Up on his roost, John has pulled himself upright again. He stands with one arm hooked around the metal post, staring off into the distance with a hand interposed over the setting sun. Motionless, he scans the western horizon for almost a minute before turning to the next compass point.

“What the fuck is that shallow-panned moron doing up there?” a voice says behind you – a voice with three orange popsicles. “I’ve told him a hundred times he’s going to fold his flimsy human backbone into an accordion one of these days, but all I get is the echo from the gaping pit he calls a cranium.”

You extract one without making him drop the rest, feeling a little smug about hearing your own thoughts spoken out loud. He sticks the second one in his mouth and uses the third to shade his eyes. A golden drop clings to it, catching the sun.

“She’s not coming back,” he mutters with a cheek full of ice.

You glower at him reprovingly. “You don’t know that, Karkat.”

He shoots you a sidelong look without lowering his hand, shifting the popsicle to the other side of his mouth. “Seen it before,” he says, using the stilted grammar of a person trying to type one-handed. “Back home.”

Sigh. “Take that thing out of your mouth if you want to talk to me.”

“Hell no. Try it. It’s dishus. Delishush.” He can’t even get the whole word out. You give yours an experimental lick, and your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Dang, that’s a yummy pop. Truly a fitting end for the canned oranges.

”Good, right? Creamshickle.” He swallows, wiping a spot of drool off his chin. “Neighbor did. Knew the drones were coming, and he jush walked away. Middle of the day. Thought about it a lot. Go with dignity, you know?”

He pulls the thing out of his mouth to shout up at John, gesturing urgently at the popsicles. John gives him a thumbs up.

“Do you think he has any idea what I just said?” Karkat says, popping the creamsicle back in his mouth.

“Not a chance.” The two of you – three, counting Leon – watch him lean precariously into the open air, dropping his tools one by one. The screwdriver nearly nails Dave in the shoulder on its second bounce, but he dodges it in a blink.

“Sorry!” John emotes, then starts making shooing motions. You hurriedly scramble to your feet, hugging Leon anxiously, but the baby’s more concerned about you than whatever idiotic stunt his father’s about to perform.

He repeats the thumbs up. Jade, clutching her broad-brimmed sun hat to keep it from sailing away in the rising breeze, returns it.

“Oh, Jade, please don’t encourage him,” you sigh. Dave hoists Lucy up to straddle his shoulders, bracing her with his hands. She sinks her grubby fists into his hair.

“Don’t think, just do!” he shouts.

“I can’t watch,” you moan, unblinking.

Karkat scrapes his teeth jarringly against the ice. “He won’t,” he crunches, as John unlatches himself from his handholds, poised with his arms spread. “…Maybe,” he amends.

And John throws himself backward, the wind tearing at his clothes, his exhilarated laughter almost lost in the clamor of Jade’s impelling holler.

He drops, falling, faster, his hands mimicking the shape of parachutes – like driving down the highway with the windows rolled down, letting the wind shove its way between your fingers. His back arched, his glasses anchored only by Jade’s lanyard, he falls like a stone, blinded by the hair whipping past his ears.

There’s a terrifying _whomp_ and a cloud of dust that would have choked you if you weren’t already gagging on a mouthful of orange creamsicle.

“Just swallow it,” Karkat says, waving away the brown grit. You glare at him, doubled over in ice cream agony. Poor Leon! He’s utterly befuzzled to find himself suddenly upside down. _This is why people wish for laser eyes_ , you think. _This right here_.

Dave picks his way over to the source of the billowing dust storm, still raging, with John at its center. Hovering on a cushion of air, his head six bare inches from the dirt, your brother catches his breath.

“Dude, you about killed Jane.”

Like flipping a switch, the roar ceases and John abruptly hits the ground. He sits up, rubbing his head and squinting though the haze he raised with his godlike powers. You mentally update your laserbeam hit list to include all teenage boys without exception.

“Sanctuary,” John says, looking at you.

“You’re going to need it,” Karkat grunts.

“I like it!” Jade exclaims, rolling the word across her tongue. “Sanctuary! What do you think?”

Dave shrugs. “Sure, that works.”

“That’s the word I was trying to think of earlier,” John says, pointing at the windmill, its beautiful stained-glass windows casting colorful patterns on the hillside.

“John, that was like a month ago,” you tell him, your anger melting. Yes, with the windows it almost looks like a squat, round church. Sanctuary is a good word.

And up here, on top of the world in the late spring sun, with the breeze sweet and heavy with the smell of flowers, you think that it’s not a half-bad name for a planet, either. Surrounded by friends and family, you have a hard time imagining the fear of those first few months. Having gods for friends is like having a cheat code for life. Everything gets a bit more exciting and a bit less believable.

“Looks like I miscounted,” Karkat says blithely, handing Dave the last popsicle. He looks at the sad, dripping treat, now embedded with dirt and little rocks. Jade, wrapping her fingers around Karkat’s elbow, cheerfully volunteers to help him bring up some more. She leads him away as Terezi rounds the base of the windmill, waving to them as they pass.

“Have fun, you two!” she calls merrily after them.

The creamsicle slides off its stick and rolls into the dust at Dave’s feet. He ignores it melting against the side of his shoe, instead watching his girlfriend’s descent down the bluffs, taking the steep path in leaps and bounds with the troll at her heels, trying to keep up. “I _hate_ that guy,” he says, as Karkat vanishes around a bend.

“You should tell him that,” Terezi buzzes, handing him a fresh popsicle. “He’ll flip his shit!”

“ _Platonically_.”

“Perfect! Exactly like that!” She wiggles her eyebrows at him.

Halfheartedly, he mutters, “Whose side are you on?” just as John finally extracts Lucy’s sticky fingers from his hair.

“Yours, of course!” Terezi giggles. “But mostly my own.” She presents John with a popsicle; he offers it to his daughter as soon as he has her settled against his hip. With glittering eyes, Terezi sinks her teeth into the last one and sets off across the cliff at a brisk walk. Dave flashsteps just once to catch up.

“I don’t understand the games you play,” you hear him say before the breeze whips their words away.

John moves to your side. “Sorry for scaring you,” he says, holding the creamsicle for Lucy to nibble.

“Your children are going to grow up wondering why they can’t fly like Daddy can. You’ll be lucky if they don’t kill themselves trying.”

“I’ll give them my rocket pack. I’ll build them hang gliders and hot air balloons,” he laughs, the setting sun throwing angular shadows across his features, highlighting the mysterious transformation of his baby face into one longer and more grown-up. “It’ll be okay, Jane! I promise.”

You study Leon’s somber face and wonder how much a child understands before mastering the art of memory. He deserves more than daydreams and fallacies. They should both have chance to shine, a life not wholly spent in their father’s shadow.

“I wish Roxy were here.”

John ducks his head, mimicking Leon’s serious gaze back at him. “I’m pretty sure they think you’re their mother. At least this one,” he says, tweaking his son’s nose. Leon just leans back, wobbling a little. Lucy, done mangling the orange creamsicle, reaches for her brother and smacks him on his chubby arm.

“No hitting, Lu,” John says, taking her hand and using it to gently pat Leon. “Like this.” He lets her try. Instead of hitting him again, she grasps her brother’s forefingers in her fist and hangs on tight.

“Yeah, it’ll be okay,” he repeats serenely.

“Quit trying to lick my eyeball!” Dave’s voice drifts across the hilltop.

Smiling fondly, John’s tone doesn’t change a hair. “I don’t even want to know,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I missed you guys! Roxy gets a chapter in two weeks. See you then!
> 
> Theme for John: ["Lonely Boy" - The Black Keys](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a_426RiwST8)


	15. Roxy: Come home.

You open your eyes, listening to the water trickling over the rocks at the back of the cavern. As content as you are to stay hidden away here, preferably forever, you nonetheless admit to missing your real bed: a mattress so worn that it’s more quills than feathers and sheets that smell perpetually of John. In a perfect world you could hang here indefinitely, in your vacation home from reality, and never go back to your old soul-crushing routines. No more lonely days, trapped in your miserable body, trapped in your miserable head. No more guilt, no more suffering, no more responsibility. No more pretending. No more pitying looks from people who think they understand how you feel.

“I’m freeeeeee,” you whisper softly, too quiet to echo.

Almost immediately, you remember that not feeling sorry for yourself is the thing you’re doing now, and besides, you have better things to do. Rolling your bony butt to the edge of the slab, you take off skipping as soon as your feet hit the floor.

You hear frogs before you see them, skidding to a stop in the airy atrium where Calliope likes to sit and work, where light streams through the cave’s entrance and half a dozen smaller portals in the rockface.

“Oh, Callie! They’re adorable! Where did they come from?”

“I’m sure I don’t know!” she answers with a happy wave in your direction, pencil stub tucked between her claws. The gloves she wears are dingy with graphite smudges. “They appeared out of thin air just a moment ago. If you didn’t dream them…?”

“Sorry!” a chipper voice rings out. “I got distracted outside!”

Jade ducks past the low ceiling at the cave’s outlet, arms full of amphibians of all sizes and colors. They spill onto the white canvas under Callie’s easel. There, they make themselves at home among the throng already coating the floor, looking for all the world like jumping beans made of gemstones. She scoops one up out of the group, a pretty blue one with yellow spots, and plops it down on a bright white screen – Dave’s iPhone, seemingly appropriated for this very purpose – where it happily squats, throat pulsing. Its skin is so translucent that the light blasts right through, silhouetting its insides and making it glow like a candle.

“Look!” she says. She holds the thing out to you like a precious gift.

“Oooooh,” you and Calliope chorus together, leaning over the living, breathing work of art in awe, watching its heart race amidst its toothpick ribs. You don’t know how she does it; Jade has a wonderful talent for making the ordinary spectacular.

After a moment, she lets the demo frog rejoin his mates, several of whom are already making a break for the outside world. The kitten (more of a catling, now) bats one experimentally. You tell him to leave them alone, but the little delinquent ignores you completely.

“So, Jade, let’s hear it! Anything exciting going on back at the house?” Callie leans forward, blinking her wide, blank sockets. Here, she can take whatever form she wants; she could be a real troll if she wanted to – or even a human! Just imagine! – but the black headband remains, nestled over her perfectly styled wig. Some appearances must be kept up, it seems.

“Nothing new since the last time we talked, except for the usual dinner table shenanigans. Oh, Roxy – Lu said ‘Dada’!”

You clap your hands delightedly, sharing Jade’s happy smile. Lulu’s first word! You love hearing news about your twins; they’re so much easier to be excited about from a distance.

“What about John? Does he talk about me?” you ask her.

Her cheer diminishes a little. “Not to me, no.” She twirls a loop of dark hair around her finger, thinking. “But you’re definitely on his mind, you know? Sometimes he’ll say something, or do something, and I can tell he’s thinking about what you would’ve said if you were there. It’s kind of like – like he carries you around with him. Not a ghost or anything,” she adds hastily. “More like a memory. He misses you.”

You can just see him, leaving his sweet potatoes for last just in case you show up to steal a bite before the end of dinner. Turning on the subtitles even though he’d rather listen to the bad voice acting on the dubbed version. Saving a seat next to him whenever he sits down because you can’t be punctual to save your life. Suddenly you miss him so bad it feels like a fist around your throat.

Callie wants to know how Jane’s doing.

“Jane? She’s fine,” Jade frowns. “She hasn’t been by?”

Calliope shakes her head sorrowfully. “She’s neglecting me,” she intones, and you feel a rush of compassion for your dear friend. Death must be so lonely.

“You’re not the only one Jane’s neglecting,” Jade sighs. “She’s too busy for her boyfriend, much less the rest of us. Maybe if you come home, Roxy, she can take a break from mothering and get back to her own life….”

You say nothing. You miss everybody, but you don’t want to go back if it means re-immersing yourself in the deep black empty that you worked so hard to escape from. In fact, you want to get as far away from that scene as possible.

This is your problem; it has always been your problem; it is still your problem. It took you a long time to recognize that the liquor was just another spider hole. Despite the respite you found in Callie’s bubble – taking a break from yourself, from the rut you’ve been carving through your mind from _well that was dumb_ to _not mother material_ to _babykiller_ – it’s possible that you’ve gotten as much relief as you can possibly eke from this little sabbatical. Eventually, you need to return to the responsibilities of civilization, if only to prove to yourself that you can.

And you can. You think you can. Anyway, you won’t know until you try.

“Rose is getting married soon,” Jade adds significantly. “You don’t want to miss _that_.”

No, you sure don’t. That’s it, then. That’s your sign. It’s time to go.

Your friend-o-meter starts dinging like crazy as Calliope bites her lip and turns back to her artwork, frowning in false concentration. You figure she’s probably not happy at the thought of you leaving, but when you ask her what’s wrong she answers too quickly to be entirely truthful.

“If you’re not going to show me the picture you’re working on, the least you can do is tell me what you’re thinking about,” you chide. “That’s how being friends works.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I don’t mean to be so dodgy,” Callie replies, smiling apologetically. “It’s just that I have Kanaya and Rose undergoing some quadrant vacillation right now, ever since Aradia kissed Kanaya on Quadrantide – did I tell you about that?”

Oh, of course. Suddenly you understand everything.

“Aradia did _what_?” Jade sits up in alarm.

“Not really,” you tell her reassuringly. “It’s just a story Callie’s writing.”

“By the way,” she lowers her voice enticingly, “you will not _believe_ the scene I just wrote for John and Karkat.”

“Oooh,” you shiver. “I can’t wait to hear about it!”

Jade, her ears perked forward in fascination, watches this exchange with interest. “What about me? Am I in it too?”

“You have your eye on Rose, but she’s so entrenched with Kanaya that she barely even knows you exist. But!” she exclaims, arching a painted brow, before Jade can do much more than slump dejectedly. “You are about to form an alliance with Aradia with for the purpose of tearing Rose and Kanaya apart.”

This news serves only to upset Jade further. “I’m a homewrecker even in fiction!” she cries. You reach over to give a soothing scratch behind her left ear, and she leans unhappily into your hand.

“Don’t worry, you won’t succeed. Rose and Kanaya are going to work out their differences and emerge stronger than ever. I was actually going to have you fall in love with Aradia while you were plotting together.”

“Even worse, a _failed_ homewrecker!”

“This is why I never ask what she writes about me,” you tell her out of the corner of your mouth. “Some things you just don’t need to know. Like what Kraft mac and cheese is made of.”

Mouth quirking into a smile, flashing fangs arranged like pawns in two neat ranks, Calliope picks up her pencil again. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she tells you. “You’re the star of the show. I’ve made all your dreams come true! Even the ones you don’t know about yet.”

“Yeah, see, shit like that, that’s what worries me. How much of your story is based on real life, and how much sprang whole from your head? And if I let you tell me about it, how do I keep myself from turning into the person you wrote – or doing just the opposite, to be difficult?”

“Roxy, that’s the beauty of it! Art is a dialogue! Meaning emerges from the relationship between artist and audience. Nothing is beautiful that arises in isolation.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, of course!”

_Gotcha!_ You smile as broad as the cat that got the cream. “Then why won’t you show me what you’re drawing? Hmm?”

The cherub colors, as much as a face covered in grey paste can be said to color. “This one is private!”

Cupping your hand, you whisper loudly to Jade, “It’s porn!” Calliope is predictably scandalized, and denies everything.

“Look,” Jade says. “Does it, or does it not, depict a romantic pairing?”

“Perhaps,” Callie answers with a tremulous note of caution.

“Does it, or does it not, depict behavior that could be construed as a sexual overture?” She’s so cute when she’s acting all serious, her double-wide eyes magnified even more by thick lenses. The family resemblance between her and John gets a little heavy sometimes.

You cut to the chase, knowing that Callie will deflect indirect questioning all night if you let her. “Look, are there naked people in it?” Callie opens her mouth, blushing so furiously that her spirals are nearly washed out in swaths of lime – she has to be projecting it; there’s no way she could actually blush hard enough to show through her pancake makeup.

“There totally are, aren’t there. What do you have over there? Topless? Bottomless? Full frontal? Boys or girls? Dammit, woman, why won’t you let me _see?_ ”

“You want to see? Truly? You won’t be mad?” She’s waffling, you can feel it.

“Callie,” you coax in a gentle voice, “everything you make is beautiful. Even the porn. _Especially_ the porn.”

Sighing, the cherub slaps a hand over her eyes, reaches blindly for the panel, and shoves it at you.

Even only in the roughest pencil, you can make out the iconic image of a topless blonde half-depantied by a playful, crouching dog. Only, this dog looks a little less canine and a little more like a woman with not much to wear but Coke bottle glasses and waves of raven-black hair. It’s simultaneously brilliant and highly inappropriate for a sophisticated lady alien to have in her possession, much less think up and create all by her lonesome.

“You didn’t,” you say, handing the picture to Jade. “Callie, darling, you _didn’t_.”

The alien scrunches up her face, magically not wrinkling the paint. “Oh my goodness, why did I do that?” she moans. “I must be utterly daft!” She’s trying to grab it back, peeking out between her claws, but it won’t budge – Jade’s got the paper stretched tight between pinched fingers, nearly touching her nose.

“Is that me?” she wonders out loud. Yes, Jade, welcome to the wonderful world of Calliope’s friendship.

You make a snap decision: you absolutely have to own this picture. “Doesn’t matter, it’s mine!” you sing out. “Gimme!”

“It _is_ me! Look, those are my ears!” She reaches up to pinch one delicately between her nails (dark brown with lime polka dots, today.)

“I’m going to burn it,” Calliope promises. “Just as soon as I get my hands on it again, it’s going in the fire.” At her words, a warm light flares in a cast iron brazier that wasn’t there a moment ago.

“No!!!” You glance at Jade in surprise. She looks as dismayed as you, maybe even more.

“Callie,” Jade continues with a zealous glow in her eyes, “you have to finish this.”

“Yeah, and then give it to me!”

“I couldn’t possibly –“

“What’s your commission fee? I will pay you,” you tell her. “I will pay you in sexual favors if I have to.”

Calliope looks like she wants to crawl into a dark corner of her cave, crumble into bits, and be swept under a rug.

You stand up, stump hand on your hip and pointer finger swishing through the air. Sassitude: maximized. “I’m going home, but mark my words, I will be back,” you announce with conviction. “I’m coming back to collect that picture! If you burn it, you’ll never see me again.” Jade nods imperiously at your shoulder.

“That’s blackmail!”

“Them’s the breaks, sugar.”

The cherub stands, straightening the folds in her stiff pants, looking torn. Throwing yourself at her, you wrap your arms around her waist and bury your face in her shirt. She smells like a room that hasn’t been opened in years.

“I know it’s time,” she sniffs, “but I don’t want you to go. I won’t do anything but putter around aimlessly the whole time you’re gone.”

Lifting your head and blinking at her through your lashes, you give her a wry smile. “No need to go all mopey on me. I’ll dream myself here every night, just like always. And I’ll bring Jane by when I can. She’s just not as good at moving through the bubbles as some of us are.”

She kisses your upturned cheeks formally, her waxy makeup leaving a thin film on your skin. “Thank you, lovey. When will you be back in person?”

“Not until Jane’s ready, and who knows how long that will take? You better have my picture finished, or else.”

She sighs. “Oh, Roxy, you will be the death of me.”

“Darling, you have that completely ass-backwards. Wait and see.” You squeeze her goodbye, then offer your good hand to Jade, who – rather than attempting a leftie handshake – uses it to pull you into another crushing hug, this time on the receiving end.

“Can I tell everyone you’re coming home?”

“Better not, honey, I don’t want you to get in trouble for not telling them where I went sooner,” you tell her, banging her on the back with your bad arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back before you know it.”

You back away from Jade and Calliope, careful of the frogs, and blow them kisses goodbye. They wave back; Jade cheerfully, Callie less so.

Taking a deep breath –

– you wake up in the dark all in a rush. Beside you, the kitten comes awake with a trilled question mark and a long languid stretch.

You don’t have anything to pack – everything you have is already in your sylladex – but you spend a minute straightening your blanket, pulling it up over your bedmate’s golden mask to ward off the dust. She didn’t seem to mind sharing her shroud with you, but it would be rude to leave her exposed to the elements while you’re away. After a moment’s thought, you point your portal gun at the far wall and drop a window there. It doesn’t go anywhere important yet (when was the last time you used this gun, anyway?), but you imagine it will come in handy later.

You skirt the dark stain that you could never quite scrub away. If you could erase it, you would. It would upset Jane’s delicate sensibilities to see such graphic evidence of your brush with death all over the floor. Still, the fact that that thought doesn’t riddle you with guilt is a testament to how far you’ve come.

It doesn’t matter.

The day you realized that you were alone, really and truly alone, that you would never meet another creature like yourself, and that the only other living human being was so far away he might as well be on the moon. – The first time you woke up in a pool of blood with a fuzzy memory of the dull panic you felt watching it well from the wounds on your legs, thinking _this is not the feeling I was looking for, but I’ll take it_. – The day you first tried to fill the hollowness inside yourself with alcohol and reached the physical limits of your tolerance without even figuring out how deep the hole went. – The days without number when you couldn’t even get out of bed….

The night you realized that the boy you couldn’t live without had no intention of even _trying_ to love you back. None of it matters now.

Nothing can hurt you anymore. Not the past or the future. Not even yourself.

You duck out of Callie’s cave without looking back.

* * *

Six nights later – really, almost morning; it’s nearly New Year’s, the longest day of the year, and the sun rises stupidly early to get started on its roasting, turning the spit nice and slow so the planet will cook evenly. The morning of the sixth day, then, that’s when you come home, sliding through the blocks and mortar as smooth as butter and emerging at the verge of the garden. You follow your nose to the fiery shrine to pay your respects to the mother grub, then follow your stomach to the kitchen. If you’re extra, super lucky, maybe Jane’s started cooking again. You’ve been traveling at night, so you’ve been out of touch with Jade for a few days; anything could’ve happened in the meantime.

Unfortunately, this is not your extra super lucky day. Damn.

But it must be at least your marginally lucky day because there’s ice cream in the freezer and ginger snaps in the pantry. With the back of a spoon and a touch of alchemy, you have breakfast.

You feel like a little kid, swinging your legs and singing the first thing that comes into your head as you shovel ice cream into your mouth.

_I was five and he was six_  
_We rode on horses made of sticks_  
_He wore black and I wore white_  
_He would always win the fight_

_Bang, bang, he shot me down_  
_Bang, bang, I hit the ground_  
_Bang, bang, that awful sound_  
_Bang, bang, my baby shot me down…_

“I haven’t heard you sing since we were little,” Dirk says from the door, and you swear your butt somehow leaps a few inches off the countertop. You waste no time wrapping your arms around his neck and holding on for dear life. Miracle of miracles, he snags you around the waist and hugs you back, and it’s just like you imagined, closer than two heartbeats.

_No. Stop_.

“Dirk!” you squeal. The way he shies away from your voice tells you that its pitch is probably unsuitable for human ears. Whatever, you haven’t seen him in months, he can suck it.

“Ice cream isn’t breakfast food,” he says, confiscating your spoon and replacing it with a strawberry, the most delicious you’ve ever tasted.

You devour it down to the leaves and beg for more. “You don’t understand,” you tell him, sucking back drool. “I’ve been living on crawfish and saltines for the last four months. I probably have scurvy or something.”

He delivers another one straight to your mouth. “You’re singing the wrong song,” he notes, watching you take the sweet red fruit apart with relish. “Jake’s the one that shot you, not your ‘baby’.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you argue through the juicy flesh, grinning like an idiot. You can’t hardly look at him, that’s how bright he is on your retinas. Like the sun. “You’re all my babies.”

“Okay, fine.”

“Speaking of which…” He pauses, berry halfway to his own mouth, eyebrows propped over his shades, waiting for you to finish your thought. You snatch the fruit away and make him wait for a bit longer, feeling slightly less like a school of hungry piranhas with every nibble. “How are my babies?”

“Are you still referring to ‘all of us,’ or just the twins?”

“Lulu and Leon. My flesh and blood.”

“Alive,” he pops another strawberry into his mouth, too fast for you to snag it. “Motherless.” That stings, but only for a second. Your endorphins are flowing now, sweeping away the bad thoughts.

“Oh hey! Good news! I managed to keep the cat alive. There’s hope for me after all.”

He sighs. “Let it go, Roxy. It wasn’t your fault.” He seems to hesitate, plucking at your midnight blue hem. “This, on the other hand….”

Oh, shit. How are you supposed to explain the god tier thing? He knows exactly what you had to do to get it, too. You suddenly wish you had changed clothes before grabbing breakfast.

_I took my own life in a room that smelled like snakeskin and mummified death. Surprise, darlin’, god tier isn’t the panacea we always thought it would be… Maybe my mind and body wouldn’t still be disfigured if I’d had a dream self to spare. This tortured vessel is all I’ve got, and I have to put myself back together the hard way, just like everyone else._

“What, can you fly now?” He sounds… envious? Whatever it is, it’s not flattering on him. Does he want it so badly, this second life?

“No more than I could before.” You force a grin. If he doesn’t ask where and how and why, you don’t have to answer. “Too much gravity here, or something. The realism attribute is off the charts.”

He lets out a rough sigh, still fingering the fabric of your royal blue tunic. His arm around your waist feels like a… not like a vise. Something softer, more comforting. A blanket, or maybe one of those straps that holds you in a car – a safety belt.

“You should have taken me with you,” he says quietly, his eyes boring into your head.

“Honey, I appreciate the thought, but this was something I needed to do alone.” _You were one of the things I was trying to get away from_. Stupid, stupid, to think you could leave Dirk behind. He’s part of you. When they dig up your fossil, they’ll find the traces he left on your bones.

“It wasn’t supposed to be an offer. I was trying to make a request.” He clears his throat. “Next time, please take me with you, Roxy. I don’t… I don’t belong here.”

Wow. The p-word. Maybe you aren’t the only one who’s changed.

Your tone gentles. “Of course, Dirk. I promised Callie I’d be back. I know she’d love to meet you in person. She was miffed that you never came to visit her, until I explained about your… insomnia.” Insomnia’s too mundane a word for his surreal existence, but if anyone could stay sane without sleeping, it’d be Dirk.

“She’s behind this crackhead baby craze, I assume.”

“She and Jade wanted to start a Space Lady Coalition thingy, but she’s having a rotten time reaching any of the trolls through the mother grub’s broadcast, and Kanaya has no skill for navigating the bubbles anyway.” You take a deep breath, suppressing a shiver. “Dirk, some of the memories out there are horrible. I can’t imagine what it must be like for the trolls – reliving their friends’ deaths, revisiting childhood nightmares. Callie thinks her brother’s still out there, poking his claws through the cracks.”

“Who? English?”

Your voice drops to a whisper out of superstitious habit. “Caliborn.”

“Why are you whispering? He can’t hear you. Even if his ghost is haunting the Ring, he doesn’t have a body left to seize. _Caliborn!_ ” he calls loudly. “Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice. Voldemo –“

“ _Shhhhh!_ ” You try to cover his mouth, giggling uncontrollably. He spits out a mouthful of arm warmer.

“I should be grateful I don’t sleep, if it’s as bad as you say.” His eyes focus somewhere over your shoulder. “It wasn’t a problem before, I mean, whenever I got tired I could just attend to my dream self and give the rest of my brain a break. Now I can’t even do that. It’s like being trapped in an echo chamber. I can’t roam like you can, Rox,” he says. He tweaks your nose humorlessly. You wrinkle it back at him.

You’ve always had wanderluck. It doesn’t matter which way you go; somehow, you always end up where you need to be. The voidey thing is versatile like that.

You hum a few more bars of “Bang Bang,” wishing you had a fancy pink cowgirl dress like Nancy, when suddenly there’s a crashing noise in the pantry and a black blur high-tailing it for the open window. Dirk views the commotion with interest.

“You brought the cat back,” he says. “Let me guess. Shadowcat.”

“Um…”

“Felix? Bagheera?” He peers at you through his shades. “Tell me you didn’t name him Sylvester.”

“The naming of cats is a difficult matter,” you begin with a smile. “It isn’t just one of your holiday games; you may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter when I tell you, a cat must have –“

“ _Three different names_ ,” he says, catching up and overtaking you all at once. As you listen to the rolling cadence of his voice – his scansion is perfect; you can’t imagine how much of his head is filled with poetry, words packed together like sardines, imbibing unheard-of flavors of meaning – you fondly recall him delivering _The Naming of Cats_ when his voice was higher, and less cynical.

He interrupts his recitation to make an aside. “Jellylorum,” he says. “That’s the winner, right there.”

“I always liked that one, too,” you say, sounding it out: “Gel-lee-lor-rum. Liquid consonants. Like ‘cellar door.’” He chucks your chin affectionately, and you continue together, where you remember the words:

_But above and beyond there's still one name left over,_  
_And that is the name that you never will guess;_  
_The name that no human research can discover—_  
_But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess…_

You hold him tight against your chest, reveling in the singularity of the moment. You feel like the keeper of a precious secret. Who knows what might happen if you let it slip to the wrong ears. The war will be lost. His kingdom will fall.

He reads – read – all the time: history, literature, philosophy, anything he could get his hands on. He used to message you in the middle of the night and make you skim a couple of paragraphs just so he could have somebody to talk to about what ideas they planted in his head. He would’ve been a poet, you’re sure of it, but at some point when you were still inviting your stuffed animals to tea he decided he was too cool for such things. You were half-afraid he’d flushed it all down the drain. You should’ve known better. This is Dirk, this right here. Not the shades. Not the sculpted bod, hot though it may be. This is the boy who was your hero when he was just a voice coming from your computer. This is the man who saved your life – not just once, but every day for years.

You’re the only one who gets to see this side of him – not Jake, or Jane, or his long-lost bro. You can’t have the rest of him, but this little piece is _yours._

“When did we come apart?” you mumble into his shirt, wishing that he turned down the legendary infinite shower for something a little more primitive every once in a while. It wouldn’t kill him to smell like something besides soap.

There wasn’t one particular moment when the thread began to unravel. It was a gradual process that began when you were too young to know any better, and it built momentum as you approached adolescence. As you realized that what your heart was set on was nothing more than make-believe, you started drinking to numb the sting of reality. That’s when he put his brain in a computer so he’d have someone else to call besides you.

It was a rhetorical question – at least, you weren’t expecting an answer – but he delivers anyway.

“When we started keeping secrets,” he says.

_I know mine_ , you think to yourself. _What’s yours, hon?_

“So.”

“…So tell me about your horse.”

He drums his fingers on the countertop. “You’re astonishingly well-informed for someone who’s been incommunicado for the last five months.”

“I’m no snitch.”

“Riiight… Let’s see. She’s brown.”

“Mm-hmm.” You peel yourself away from him and cross the kitchen to look for a marker.

“She doesn’t whinny, she kind of… screams.”

“That’s disturbing.” Your search of the drawers turns up nothing. Finally, you settle for the dry-erase marker tied to the fridge door. It works perfectly fine on your bare skin.

“She’s pretty well-behaved, when she’s not trying to eat me.”

“That’s a horse for you, right?” You take the soft fabric of your arm warmer between your teeth and tug it back down to cover what you wrote on your right wrist. Is it still called a wrist if it’s not connected to a hand anymore? The body part formerly known as wrist. Crossing the floor, you press close to Dirk, hoping to somehow sneak back under his arm.

He just looks at you blankly with his arms folded across his chest, clearly disinclined to cooperate. “You’re not listening.”

“Sure I am! She sounds like quite the hellion.” You toss your head, smiling. He raises one hand, perhaps to touch your face, but hesitates.

You match your hand against his, palm to palm. His fingers overtop yours by a joint and a half.

“Should have been a white horse,” you tell him. Flirtatiously? Sure. Can’t keep a good dog down, or something like that: lessons misappropriated from Jade’s cartoons.

He shakes his head. “You watch too much Disney,” he says. “I was never your Prince Charming.”

Your eyes drift away even as your fingers dig in between his, nails creasing the back of his hand. He doesn’t understand. Love doesn’t have to be black and white; there’s lots of room in the middle for something like this, if he’d ever admit that there was a “this.”

“What’s her name?” you ask the region of his chin.

“Guess.”

“God, I don’t know. Trigger? Blackjack? Silver? Those are the only cowboy horse names I can think of.”

“Who says it has to be a cowboy horse?”

You roll your eyes. Obviously, the fact that he dresses and talks like the lovechild of Hiro Protagonist and Annie Oakley has somehow escaped him.

“Shadowfax? Epona?” He shakes his head at each of these. “Artax?”

“Who’s Artax?”

“Atreyu’s horse, that drowned in the swamp.”

“Oh yeah. ‘Fight against the sadness, Artax!’ Why would anyone ever name their horse Artax?”

“Hm. Alexander the Great’s horse had a funny name.”

“Bucephalus?” He cocks his head. “That would have been a good name,” he admits.

“Red Hare, Traveller… No? You’re killing me.”

“Dash.”

“Oh, _Dash_ , I would’ve never guessed _that_ ,” you smirk, uncovering your arm and showing him what you wrote there – a squiggly D, A, S, H about to lurch off the edge of your wrist. He squints at it briefly before breaking into a huge grin.

“Your handwriting’s improving,” he congratulates you, gently inspecting your amputated hand. The stump is rough to contemplate, all scarred and ugly, with little knobs where the skin barely covers the wrist bones. He gently touches the taut, paper-thin scar tissue.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

Truthfully, you tell him, “Not anymore.” Thanks to god tier, nothing hurts anymore.

“I have something for you,” he says, a little hesitantly, like he’s not sure you’ll want it, “but it’s up in my room, and there are some stops you need to make.”

“John.”

“Yeah. Mostly John. But you need to see Jane, who’s been taking care of the twins for the last few months, and you probably should thank Gamzee too.” He shakes off your questioning look: “You’ll see why once you talk to Jane.”

So you have an itinerary: John, Jane, Gamzee, and maybe a present from Dirk, and oh yeah you probably should go see your babies. Actually, that first, then the other things.

No. One other thing first. You lift your chin, square your shoulders, and find Dirk’s eyes. He looks wary. Like if he blinks you might disappear again.

No way, babe. You’re here to stay.

“I love you, Dirk.”

“I...” He trails off. “No.”

Was that a “no” no or was that a “know”? Hmph. You’d like to hear him say it back, but pushing you away when you get too close is hard-wired for him. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but you want to give him a little more time to come around.

Like you said, it doesn’t matter. Today is yours. His will come, but it doesn’t have to be right now.

He tears his eyes away. “You need to talk to John,” he repeats, and you’re done here, so you go.

* * *

You slip into the nursery on little cat feet without opening the door. It doesn’t make a difference; Leon is awake and waiting for you, though his sister is still snoring softly.

He’s unfazed by the prospect of being picked up. He sits up pretty well on his own and doesn’t seem to appreciate a good cuddle, so in the end you wind up in front of the window waiting for the sun to rise with your little man and his solemn grey eyes watching your back for you.

The warning he gives is a little bobble of his head as he tries to track his father moving across the room. Better than nothing, though you underestimated John’s sneakiness. You suppose one learns a few things being around newborns.

Either way, he gets his arm around you before you really decide what you want to say, so instead, you hang an elbow around his neck and sink into him, trying to make up for half a year in the space of a minute.

A minute that stretches much longer than you intended, and when it ends you’re left staring at each other, trembling, and you still have no idea what to say. Maybe he doesn’t either. Maybe he can see everything in the bottom of your eyes. Maybe he doesn’t have any other message than the one he’s broadcasting now: love, love, love. Love in the way he steadies your wobbly knees, love in the way his eyes gobble up your face and his gentle fingers brush back your loose tangles.

“Oh, baby, me too,” you breathe.

Your words break the spell. “How are you doing?” he asks you, quietly.

“Better,” you tell him, but instead of being mollified by your answer, he looks at Leon and his expression hardens.

“You abandoned them, Rox.” For a moment, you can’t tell if it’s John or your own conscience talking.

“I did,” you admit.

“You abandoned us.”

“I did.” Like ripping off a band-aid. No excuses, just the truth. “I abandoned you.”

He blinks, like a wince. “Why?”

“Because I hurt.” You take a deep breath. “I’ve been struggling with… this… for a long time.” He just looks at you, his eyebrows knitting themselves almost imperceptibly. Somehow you thought this would be easier. “It comes and goes. I’d been doing really well for a few months, but towards the end of the pregnancy it got really bad.”

The next part catches, a little, so you address yourself to Leon instead of his father, and that helps. “Before I started drinking, when it got so bad that I thought I would never feel anything again, when I could no longer separate the truth from the lies my brain was telling me… I did the only thing that seemed to make sense, and it helped, for a little while.” The infant stares up at you in fascination, but he would’ve had the same reaction whether you told him you had toast for breakfast or that the Batterwitch had ridden to Bingo Night in a rickshaw, so no help there.

“You hurt yourself.”

You nod, straightening Leon’s little tee shirt, mentally adding Kanaya to the list of people to thank just to have something to think about other than that bloodstained bathroom tile.

“But that stopped when you started drinking?”

“Mostly.” You only picked up a knife once or twice after you started in on your mom’s liquor cabinet, though you didn’t stop needing to hurt. Your self-destruct was still ticking; the arsenal had changed, that’s all.

“And now?”

“Coming back was hard, but… I think I’m ready to – to live my life again.” You look down at your son, looking so much like his father right now with his wide, solemn eyes. “Kids and all.”

He rubs a thumb across your cheek. “Jane’s having a baby. She’s going to need your help.”

“Whatever I can do for her, I will,” you tell him. “I owe her big time.”

“You have a lot to answer for, Rox.” The words are deceptive; his tone says that he’ll do the answering if you need him to. You lean against his shoulder and close your eyes, fervently hoping you can rise to the challenge, be the kind of person who can cast out her doubts and demons and move on without dragging everybody else down with her.

Six months ago, you were stuck in a vicious cycle of feeling like shit and treating everybody else like shit and then feeling like shit for that too. The difference between you-six months ago and you-now is that you-now can separate who you are from what you’ve done. You-now is in control of your fate instead of being driven inexorably forward by past mistakes. You-now has a future, tomorrows that are worth counting, and having a future means having as many chances as you need to be the Roxy you want to be, and that means it’s okay to be loved, even if you’re still not quite sure you deserve it.

When you found the windmill, turning inexorably in the predawn breeze as the massive sails wiped away the fading stars, it was a message that went straight to your bones: even if bad things happen, life will go on. Everything isn’t broken forever. How absurd that a glorified pile of rocks should give you such relief. How beautiful, that it should watch over your home like an angel of hope.

The fact that he’s still willing to stand by you after all you put him through gives you the shot of courage you needed. “I’m so sorry, baby,” you tell him. “I should have asked for help.”

“No, sweetie, not at all. I should be the one apologizing. I knew you were struggling, but I didn’t do anything. I thought you could just snap out of it. I didn’t understand that you didn’t have any control over what you were going through.” He spreads his fingers across your cheek, as if trying to transmit healing energy by direct contact. It actually kind of works! You feel fortified.

Here, too, is your windmill, rearing against the gale, transducing the turbulent chaos of the world into purpose and direction. This is something you will never fail to marvel at: how one person can be both the lee and the storm.

Leon begins to fuss, so you cradle him closer to your breast, murmuring softly: “Mommy’s here, honey, don’t cry, hush little baby…”

Staring at your mutilated wrist without really seeing it – it pokes up uselessly behind the baby’s shoulder where another mother might support her child’s head – John says abruptly, “I’ll always be here.” You glance at him, uncomprehending.

“For you, I mean.” He resettles his smudgy glasses on the bridge of his nose. “And I want you to promise that you’ll let me help you. That means telling me when you need help. Capisce?”

You smile. “Capisce.”

Lulu finally wakes. John boosts her out of her crib and starts bouncing and patting her rhythmically, which totally puts the seal on your serious discussion.

Raising his voice over her wailing, he continues doggedly. “We’ve got to be partners if we’re going to raise these kids together. We’re a team, alright?” Instead of waiting for your answer, he raises a stern eyebrow and asks, “You _do_ still want to do this, right?”

“Of course I do,” you reply, suppressing a grin. Lulu’s got a fistful of John’s shirt, pulling his collar off kilter. You don’t comment on how silly he looks right now, dictating terms in his pajamas with a bedhead halo framing his ears. You must look just as strange with your filthy hair and spotless uniform and no thumb to put through the thumb hole of your arm warmer, woe.

“You’re not going to run away again?”

“No, sweetie. I promise.”

How do you know things won’t get bad again? Easy. You don’t. It’s impossible to know the future, but that doesn’t mean you can’t change it. No one is ever really powerless.

“If you don’t want to do it, if you don’t think you can, you should just tell me now –“

“John –“

“I mean, raising kids is hard work, you know, and you need to give yourself time to get better, and it will be okay, I mean we’ve gotten along without you so far –“

Ssssss. Ouch.

“I understand if you’re not ready, no hard feelings, I mean, it was kind of your idea to have them in the first place, not that I’m trying to avoid taking responsibility, you know, it really takes two to make a baby, oh, damn it…” He slaps a hand over his mouth as the curse slips out, throwing a mortified look at Leon. Leon looks mortified right back, though he’s probably just surprised. Even Lulu stops crying for a second.

In the silence that follows, you ask in a smallish voice, “Are you breaking up with me, John?”

“What? No!” he says, shoving his hand into his pajama pocket. He gives up and goes for the other side, reaching across his waist to awkwardly fumble in the opposite pocket without putting your daughter down.

You would offer to help (any excuse to feel him up, really), but sticking your arm stump down his pants sounds decidedly unsexy, so you resign yourself to watching with bated breath as he chases himself in a circle.

“Hang on a sec… shit!” His prize goes rolling across the floor, only stopping when he stomps on it. He scoops it up off the floor and brings it back to you, dropping… to… one… knee.

“ _Oh_.” The little sound escapes your mouth like a sigh.

“Roxy,” he says, the little golden ring shining between his thumb and forefinger, “I love you and I want to marry you. Please,” he adds quickly.

“You… and Lu?”

He sneaks a look at the baby in his arm, who immediately starts screaming again. “I guess so, yeah.”

You don’t have any available hands to offer, but you don’t have the heart to make him squirm, so you lower yourself carefully to your knees. “Leon and I accept,” you answer formally, but you’re smiling like an idiot.

“Oh thank god,” he says, lunging across to smooch you, confessing as he breaks away, “That was the scariest thing I’ve ever done, ever.”

“You silly boy, did you really think I was going to say no?”

“No, but – I mean, I would’ve asked you earlier, but – it was never the right time,” he protests. Filthy and ungroomed, with your arms full of children – _this_ is the right time? You throw your head back, quaking with laughter that you can’t contain. He tries to save you, wrapping his free arm around your shoulder and squeezing you tight, but it’s no use. You’re never coming back down.

* * *

Jane hits you like a freight train with an open throttle, which can’t be good for the baby, but she’s not showing yet so maybe it doesn’t matter.

“Oh, Roxy, I’m so glad you’re safe,” she says in your ear.

“I’m glad to be home,” you tell her, smiling. She’s gained maybe fifteen or twenty pounds, but it doesn’t look bad on her willowy frame, and other than that you would never have guessed she was expecting.

“When are you due?” you ask her suspiciously.

“Early Light,” she giggles, her cheeks glowing. “I’ve been eating everything in sight since I got into my second trimester, can’t you tell?”

“That is not _fair_! I started showing weeks before that!”

“You are also, like, five two. And you were skinny as a stick to boot. You’re still skinny. What have you been eating?”

“Whatever I could catch. Fish and junk like that. I had some chocolate and saltines in my sylladex when I left, but I ran out of chocolate in about a week and a half, and I wanted the crackers to last as long as possible, so…” You shrug.

“No vegetables? No fruit?” Jane sounds appalled. “How are you still alive?”

“I had some leaves, once. They were yucky.” You make a face that you hope conveys the taste of the vegetation you sampled on a _strictly_ experimental basis. “You’re talking to the girl who was raised on bomb shelter rations and pumpkin pie, remember? Anyway, real food upsets my tummy.”

She blinks, hard. “Are you saying you don’t like my cooking? At all?”

Whoops! Maybe a little hedging is in order. “It’s okay when _you_ make it, darling,” you tell her, patting her hand.

“But not when other people are cooking? Such as, for instance… Gamzee?”

“It’s just the veggies that are gross,” you protest weakly. “Everything else is fine.”

“Hmm,” is all your bestie has to say about that.

“So, um. How’s the boyfriend? Is he everything you dreamed he would be?” you ask her playfully. Jade already told you that they’re on the rocks, but one of the marks of a top-notch gossip is that she gets the scoop from the source. It’s imperative that you uphold the highest standards of the profession.

“Eh.”

“That bad, huh?”

Jane shrugs dismissively. “He’s barely around, which saves me the trouble of breaking up with him.”

Tilting your head and adopting a hyper-interested tone, you say, “Is that right?”

“It turns out that Jake English is actually an incredible bore.”

Shock: “ _No!_ ” You’re so, so good at this.

“He has no interests or aspirations except the oft-cited adage of adventure, exploration, and conquest, none of which is relevant or interesting to me in the smallest part. The only thing he knows enough about to discuss at any length is _himself_.”

“I see,” you nod sagely.

“Plus he’s kind of dumb.”

“But he’s the sexy kind of dumb, right, where it doesn’t matter how dumb he is because he’s smoking hot and a total horndog in the sack?”

Jane lifts her shoulders in a peacefully resigned sigh. “I never thought I’d say this, but it is actually possible for someone to be so dumb that it’s a turn-off. And you know what?”

“What, honey?” you purr.

“I don’t need him.”

“Damn straight, you don’t!” You offer her a high five, which she answers with another sigh and a poke to the center of your palm.

“He just doesn’t bring anything to the table. I mean, what are the things that I enjoy?” She counts them off her fingers. “Baking, playing piano, spending time with the twins, mysteries…”

“Mustaches.”

She shudders delicately. “He’s got the most godawful facial hair going right now, in a last-ditch effort to score points with me. The worst part is, he thinks I like it, but I don’t! It’s all scratchy and he keeps getting food stuck in it and he looks like, like, a… scruffy buccaneer or something.”

“’Scruffy buccaneer!’” you hoot. “Jane, darling. Please. Never change.”

“Stained glass!” she exclaims. “I knew I forgot something. I was teaching myself how to make stained glass.” She pulls a scrapbook out of her sylladex and starts flipping through it. You catch glimpses of familiar faces before she lands on a page with a picture of an imposing figure in a leather apron, gloves, and metal mask with a small rectangular viewplate.

“What on earth is that?”

“Me! That’s me!” Jane taps the photo excitedly.

“Why’re you wearing a welding helmet? Is molten glass really bright or something?”

“Not really, but better safe than sorry. And it was all I could find.”

“Why are you making stained glass?”

“For windows!” Jane says cheerfully. “But look!” She turns the page, and there, smiling up at you, is your beautiful little princess in a precious gingham sundress looking like a perfect, darling angel.

The sheer number of adjectives bouncing around your frontal lobe right now is a direct measure of the extent of your overwhelmption.

Hungrily, you page through the rest of the album, past Rose snuggled in a huge armchair with Leon, reading out of a chapter book; past Gamzee playing peekaboo, John passed out in bed with the twins piled on top of him, Jade dressing them up as cutsey animals…

With an uneasy feeling, you hit the end and flip back through. There’s a headphone-sporting coolkid in his familiar computer chair slouch, knees tucked up against the desk with Lulu on his lap, one hand on the mouse and one on the sound board and a red-lensed blur in the foreground. Karkat, Jane, a disproportionate number of cheesy grins, and John on practically every other page, looking like the unkempt paragon of fatherhood.

“Where’s Dirk?” you ask, unable to put a name to your fear.

Jane hears it, slips her hand into yours. “Roxy,” she says kindly, “Dirk took the pictures!”

“What did I do?” You turn at the sound of his voice and bury your head in his ribcage, squeezing as tightly as your handicap allows.

“Thank you for the photo album, sweetheart! It’s the best present I could have wished for.” He takes a deep breath, loosening your grip a tad, and you suddenly notice a wooden box wedged under his arm.

“Um, Roxy,” Jane says, snapping the scrapbook closed and giving Dirk a cautious glance, “I don’t think that this is for you.” She narrows her eyes at him appraisingly. “I believe it was intended for John.”

“Oh,” you say, your eyes darting from Dirk to Jane and back. His face is carefully blank. “Okay?”

He drags his eyes away from Jane’s, drops into a chair and asks, “Do you want this or not?”

“What is it?”

He pushes the box across the table and folds his hands in front of his chin, waiting impassively for your move. You prod the lid.

“It’s not going to bite.”

Your curiosity has always been stronger than your willpower. You get a nail under the lip of the lid and flip it open, digging amongst the crumpled-up paper inside.

Your fingertips tell you what it is, but it’s your eyes that tell you you’re in love.

“You made me a _hand_. You made me a _pretty_ hand.” Your breath catches as you turn it over, admiring the silvery etching that loops and whorls from fingertips to wrist. The fingers join nearly seamlessly; the burnished joints move smoothly in an almost perfect approximation of normal range of motion. You curl the fingers into a fist and flatten them out again, feeling a little like Eeyore playing with his empty honey jar. Some things are made to be looked at, some things are made to be used. This is both. He knows you so well.

And it is wonderfully made. You don’t want to think about what other projects he sacrificed to craft this single perfect artifact. “Consider it your engagement present,” Dirk says through the tunnel of his fingers. Jane, who must’ve missed the gold on your finger, squeals some nonsense about how you’re going to be sisters and throws her arms around your neck, but you still haven’t managed to mount an appropriate response to the robotic hand, much less this tangential assault of sorority.

“I’ve spoken to Kanaya. She’s willing to do the surgery… if you want to go through with it.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” you ask, mystified. You’re honestly feeling a little dazed, like maybe you aren’t processing things correctly. Probably because Jane’s arm is across your windpipe.

He explains, very clearly, what it would entail, drawing a line across your forearm with two fingers to show you where she would have to saw through the bones to re-amputate. He tells you that the recently healed nerves and vessels will need to be severed all over again, how the tendons would be transfixed to the mechanism that controls the hand. And then he starts on the complications: bleeding, dangerous, but the easiest to deal with; infection, potentially fatal in and of itself; rejection of the prosthetic; chronic pain, possibly for the rest of your life.

And then Jane chimes in. “These things would be less of a concern in a state-of-the-art medical facility, but that’s not what we have. We have a trial-by-fire doctor and no grist.”

“No grist,” you repeat, uncomprehending.

“None. All spent on the twins. Gamzee even gave up his sopor.” Dirk confirms this with a nod. _So that’s why I have to thank him_ , you think.

“On the plus side, Kanaya’s actually done this surgery before.” No one can make optimism sound bleak the way Dirk can.

Jane gives him a well-deserved glare. “On a troll! Using a chainsaw!”

“Pain is not a problem,” you inform him.

“You say that now,” he answers.

Kanaya delivers the entire spiel about infection and rejection and pain all over again; whether it’s because she thinks Dirk must not have explained it well enough the first time, or because she just can’t comprehend why a dainty little human would put herself through such a thing, is unclear.

You can’t explain to these people why you’re not afraid of the risks, at least not in a way that doesn’t sound crazy. It has nothing to do with being slightly immortal. If anything, it’s the opposite: if you’re going to get better, you have to face the music. Starting now, you’re diving back in to life headfirst and taking it one day at a time from there. After all, a demon you won’t confront is one that can’t be overcome.

What you _can_ tell them is why you don’t fear pain.

You close your eyes, embracing the void within yourself. When you open them, the world is changed: everything’s turned warm and slow and dense and bright and fuzzy. The closest thing you’ve found to compare this feeling to is summer sunbathing in your blue and white inflatable kiddie pool, floating lazily in the parboiled saltwater with two martinis and a plate of nachos in your stomach, dehydrated and scorched pink and languorous beyond the point of caring. Yep, that’s exactly what this feels like.

They can’t see that, though. All they can see is the way your pupils swallow your eyes whole and how you move like you’re swimming through honey.

Jane, entranced, creeps one hand forward to pinch you between the bones of your hand. She digs her fingers as deep as she dares, to no effect. You shake your head with what is meant to be an angelic smile on your face, but probably you just look stoned as fuck.

Kanaya, to no one’s surprise, whips out a spiral-bound pad and starts to take notes. “Analgesia,” she murmurs, “sedation,” eying your slumped posture and drooping eyelids, “muscle relaxation, hypnosis.”

“Nepenthe,” Dirk says, watching you with the fascination of a hawk.

They’ve got the picture. You dial the effects back to baseline, just enough of a buzz to mask the ache in your right arm, and scrub at your goosebumps as the warmth drains away.

“Roxy,” Kanaya says, putting down her pen with a brisk _click_ , “it appears you can self-anesthetize.”

“Try me,” Dirk demands hungrily, yanking off his shades. You inch your hand forward to touch his fingertips, humming softly, and unleash a double dose in his direction.

For a moment, it seems like it works. His irises gape wide until they’re nothing more than a rim of gold where white meets black, and his head plummets sharply toward the table.

Then he catches himself, propped on bent arms with his shoulder blades jutting sharply from his hunched back. He doesn’t lift his face, just his eyes, meeting your own through the fringe of his hair like a lion in the grass, amber, unblinking.

“I’m so sorry, baby. I wish I could help,” you say sadly.

“Why didn’t it work?” Jane asks. Pursing your lips, you flail your stump Dirk-ward in mute answer.

Sitting up and shoving his armor back over his eyes, he drags his fingertips idly across the tabletop and heaves a heavy sigh. You squint at him accusatively without lowering your arm, and he squints back with a sour frown.

The suspense is killing you, and you already know the answer. “Dirk has an escape hatch,” you tell her.

“No,” he says.

“Then what is it?” Jane wants to know.

He dusts imaginary salt off his gloves. “It’s a hassle.”

“You know how there are lizards that’ll break off their tails when something grabs them? It’s pretty much exactly like that. Only with brain splinters.”

“Prince of Heart?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Heart,” Dirk mouths, miming the air quotes. Kanaya scribbles furiously in her notebook. No doubt she will hand it over to her fiancée the moment she gets back upstairs.

“So,” you announce briskly, slapping the table. “Are we doing this thing or not?”

Kanaya’s lips thin dourly, her fangs pressing into her lip. Jane makes an involuntary noise in her throat.

“It’s your hand,” Dirk says.

“Yes, it is.”

The surgery is scheduled for early the next morning so you can be on the mend for your sister’s big day. You sleep straight through the procedure without dreaming. Kanaya adds “amnesia” and “anxiolysis” to your side effects profile. You have to look the last one up; it means “relief of anxiety.” Seems obvious, in retrospect.

She wants to know if she should start calling you Val or just stick with Valium. You seriously consider clubbing her with the chunk of metal bound to your arm by screws and cerclage wire.

Jane brings you a very late breakfast in bed, and surprise, surprise! She made it herself!

“It’s about time I got back to work,” she says with a sunny gap-toothed smile. “I forgot how much I missed it.”

She agrees to relay your heartfelt thanks to Gamzee for helping with the babes. “Also,” she says in a lighter tone, “I told Jake that his mustache sucks.”

“How’d he take it?” you exclaim, demolishing your sausage and eggs. Someone’s been breeding ground fowl, apparently. Your little country estate is collecting quite the menagerie.

“Not too poorly, all told. He was more upset about the fact that I’d just dumped him.”

“Bravo! You, my dear, are an independent woman who don’t need no man, and, as of this moment, my personal hero. Anybody who could say no to that charming hunk of a manchild gets a gold star in my book.” You punctuate the thought with a twirl of your fork, causing your bestie to blush and giggle.

“He said he might go with Aradia when she heads out next week,” she says, pink-cheeked.

“Oh!” you reply, intrigued. “And how do you feel about that?”

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Jane answers decisively, stealing a bite of scrambled egg.

Afterwards, feeling sated and happy, you turn up the void and go back to sleep. You wake up something like fourteen hours later in a pile of snoring bodies – every single person who came to check on you apparently decided to stay for a little nap. Guiltily, you realize that your aspect’s been leaking all over the room.

You eject the cat from the bed (“Begone, you mangy thing!”), scoot Terezi over so she won’t accidentally kick you in the face, and snuggle up between John and Leon. The best thing to do is go back to sleep; if you look innocent enough, they can’t be too mad at you for turning your bedroom into a field of poppies.

The last thing you see before you drop off is Jake, looking all gorgeous and tousled and troubled. Whispering, “Serves you right, you heartbreaker,” you fold up his glasses for him and slip them into his pocket. You hear Dirk chuckling from the armchair as the void pulls you under again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dirk chapter in two weeks. Urgh, don't hurt me.
> 
> Theme for John and Roxy: ["Home" - Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4306i99LMXo)


	16. Dirk: Seek the Rogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Ware new tags.

It was New Year’s, Midsummer Day, fucking Beltane or whatever, and my “daughter” was supposed to be getting married.

Don’t get me wrong. I never saw her that way, not for a second. She was Roxy’s mom, not mine, and daughter never entered the equation. Kids weren’t part of my master plan until later, when I lost my mind. I told Roxy I hadn’t really thought about it, and that was true; when I was growing up, my bro’s legend was all the family I wanted or needed.

Now that I know Dave, it’s weird. I don’t see him doing the Hollywood thing. I mean, I like him a hell of a lot, he’s just not what I envisioned. He’s Not A Hero, self-defined. Doesn’t matter that he won the only fight that ever mattered. He fought because his back was against a wall, metaphysically speaking, not because he wanted to. Always been that way, I guess; shows what I know.

I just don’t get why someone would ever choose a broken sword over a whole one. Then again, I’ve never understood what he sees in Jade, so maybe one of us is an alien.

Roxy had come home a few days earlier. I was stupidly happy about it, too. It’s funny how you don’t realize what people mean to you until they’re not around anymore. We walk around taking each other for granted every day of our lives. It’s an idiotic way to live, but it’s easier than admitting that someday they’ll be gone for good.

In Roxy’s case, when she left, I became a stranger again overnight. I never connected with any of the trolls, and the only one of our ancestors I’d gotten to know was my own. Unfortunately for me, Dave’s slow, agonizing descent into blindness was hitting him hard, so he didn’t really have any leftover shits to dish out for my crippling social problems. Jake was avoiding me – I think he was even avoiding his own girlfriend by the end. He probably figured out what was coming. You would think he’d have learned not to let a doomed relationship linger.

So that left Jane and sort of John. I say “sort of” because he didn’t want anything to do with me.

I was confident that he’d come around eventually. Sooner or later he would figure out that he couldn’t get rid of me without losing Roxy, which meant, on some level, that I was leveraging their relationship to get at him. Which was pretty self-defeating if you think about it, since the only foot I had in the door was the fact that he was crazy about my best friend. When he asked her to marry him, I counted that as a victory: the tighter he was tied to her, the tighter he was tied to me. Looking back at it, I think that that was when my brain began to stop making sense.

As for Jane, she’s great and all, but she’s not Roxy. I needed someone who understood me _a priori_ , someone who could be a translator, a liaison, between me and everyone else. Being alone in my tower was so much easier than being alone in a sea of people.

So her homecoming was a huge relief, but it was also a distraction, because I couldn’t stop thinking about her going off and getting god tier without me. For some reason I always assumed that if it was going to happen, it’d be together. There was this nagging and completely irrational fear that she wouldn’t like me anymore now that she didn’t need protecting, that the very act of running out of my reach before she opened her veins was a blatant rejection of everything I ever meant to her. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my life was slowly drifting out of control starting with my oldest friend.

Thankfully, this time, I recognized the rising wave of my neuroticism and reined it in before it swamped another relationship. This also turned out to be a great excuse to continue to ignore the mountain of words unspoken that loomed between us.

The problem with being your own worst enemy is that there’s no victory, no honorable surrender, just a hundred million different ways to lose.

It might not be obvious to you, but I’m stalling. Let’s just lay that out where it can stare at us until we get so unnerved that we give up and get on with our business. Our business being: me telling a story, almost half of which is hearsay since I wasn’t actually there, and you sitting there in front of your purely hypothetical computer screen eating it up.

It was New Year’s, like I said. We had a huge thing planned, wedding in the morning, food and music and celebrating all day, and fireworks at night.

From the very beginning, everything went wrong.

First, without any explanation other than “Trust me,” my bro rousted Jade out of bed in the wee hours of the morning. He left her to pack while he fetched Jake and Aradia and impressed upon them the necessity of leaving a day early. I don’t know what he told them, but there is a non-negligible chance that he pulled some kind of aspect solidarity bullshit with the Maid of Time to get them moving.

You see, Aradia would’ve left for her expedition as soon as the planting was done, if it wasn’t for the wedding. Jake was a late addition to her travel plans, though not – as I understand – an unwelcome one. That’s not saying much; Aradia can be cheerful in the face of certain doom, and Jake may be a disaster but at least he’s not hard on the eyes. Jade, despite being a _very_ late addition, was ready before Dave got back. I imagine that their goodbye kiss was especially moving.

She embarked with the other two before anyone else woke up, leaving Dave to make their excuses for missing the wedding.

Once they were gone, he pulled his sister into the corridor, because in his timeline he didn’t get a chance to tell her goodbye.

Go on, reread that sentence. Take a moment to process.

“Oh shit,” you’re thinking, and oh shit is right.

We’ll call that guy Doomed Dave.

Rose, finding some empathy in her cold black heart for her own Dave – who we will not be calling Alpha anything, because that’s stupid, he’s just the regular Dave – she woke _him_ up and said goodbye. She also probably told him what his alternate-timeline future self had done. Actually, I’m sure that’s what she did, because the next thing he did was hunt down the alt so he could kick the shit out of him for sending Jade away without telling him.

After what was probably a highly entertaining argument, in which Doomed Dave divested exactly why he needed to get rid of Aradia, Jake, and Jake’s overclocked grandma, the most bizarre part of the story happened.

This was where I walked in on my bro kissing himself. It wasn’t a particularly fraternal kiss, either, though one of him was clearly enjoying it more than the other.

“That’s from Jade,” Doomed Dave said, smacking his lips.

His mirror image wiped the back of a hand across his mouth, pulling a wry face. Then he caught my eye and wanted to know what I was staring at.

“Dude. You have no right to comment on how inappropriate any of my shit is, because _that_ was fucking inappropriate,” I said.

Meanwhile, the rest of the house was stirring. Rose was putting on her wedding dress. I imagine she was laughing and joking with her sister and her bride as she ran a comb through her white-blonde hair and donned a silver headband to hold it out of her face. I don’t know what she told them about Aradia’s absence, much less Jade’s, but neither one of them suspected a thing. Maybe you’re beginning to see why I called her cold-hearted.

It was Jane’s job to keep an eye on Gamzee that day. She thought he seemed quiet that morning, but nothing out of the ordinary caught her attention. She was swamped with food prep; he was being helpful. It didn’t even occur to her to send him down to the cellar instead of going herself, but when she came back up, he was gone.

Shortly thereafter, Terezi came blasting past us – me and my two brothers, I mean – with her decorating supply-laden tool belt rattling and bouncing against her legs. She was wearing a short, tight dress, dark leggings, and flats; I remember it because it looked so out of character on her, and I wondered if she borrowed it from Roxy before I realized that Roxy is shaped like a girl and Terezi really, really isn’t. Bright ribbons of silver glitter streamed from her pockets as she made for the stairs.

“That’s my cue,” Doomed Dave said, and took off after her. You might ask how I could tell them apart, but actually it was incredibly easy. One of them was in a tux that was covered in blood and the other was still in his pajamas.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked shaggy bedhead Dave. At the time, I didn’t know that the army-of-one trick was something he used to do before the Scratch. I didn’t know shit about stable time loops and what happens if you don’t follow the rules. I saw his parlor tricks and combo attacks and I thought that was what he was good for, breaking and unbreaking swords, which is impressive but not mindblowing. The duplication thing, that was mindblowing, but I had no fucking clue what it meant.

“He’s about to do something stupid,” my brother said, sweeping the hair out of his face, “and I’d rather not watch.”

I looked him up and down. He didn’t look scared, just bitter and resigned, but it didn’t improve my opinion of him at the moment.

“Fuck you!” he answered my scowl. “Rose made me promise not to interfere.”

“Do you always follow orders?” I shot back harshly.

“Rarely,” he admitted, “but the other guy told me what happens if we don’t stick to the plan.” He turned over his hand, bloodstained red and green from touching his future self’s sleeve, and contemplated it for a moment. Something about the green seemed off, but I couldn’t have told you why.

“What if this really is the best of all possible worlds?” he muttered. I wondered how bad it was about to get, if Rose was quoting _Candide_ at my brother to keep him from fucking things up worse.

He looked up at me, and for a short second our eyes connected before the glare of the rising sun flashed across his shades and hid their shadows from me again.

“She said this is how she dies,” he said.

“Well, nobody told me not to do shit,” I retorted, and flashstepped after his alt.

In Rose’s bedroom, the races clashed as my ecto-daughter tried to stop her bride from dashing downstairs to check on the mother grub. Kanaya, slim and sleek in her elegant dress, was out of her mind with fear, while Rose fired off barbs of loaded logic with a sniper’s precision. In the end, it came down to fashion: kicking off her shoes, Rose shoved her lover off balance, gathered her massive confection of a skirt and sprinted out of the room. Roxy helped the troll to her feet, but, bound to the knees in satin, Kanaya simply couldn’t move fast enough to catch up to the Seer.

The mother stopped screaming before they made it to the stairs.

Terezi reached the scene first, launching herself at her kismesis, who was bent over the door to the oven, wrenching its handle sideways to lock it shut. Screaming, she lept at his back, wrapping her legs around his neck and clawing for his eyes. Think David and Goliath, except no sling, because Goliath’s best friend ganked it almost a year ago and never got around to giving it back. Also, aliens.

Gamzee reached over his shoulder, calmly grabbed her by the belt, and lifted her bodily into the air. “What’s this motherfucking noise, little sister?” he asked her.

“Butcher!” she shrieked, trying to wriggle out of the tool belt to no avail. She unholstered a hot glue gun and chucked it at his face. It rebounded; Gamzee was unfazed. “You culled her in cold blood, you monster!” She dug her claws between the sinews of his hand and ripped back, shredding his skin like paper. Growling, a deep bass rumble from the center of his chest, he flung her aside. She hit the wall of the incubation furnace and tumbled brokenly to the ground.

That’s when I reached the kitchen door and ran headlong into Doomed Dave. He was watching the fight impassively, grim and unarmed, leaning casually against the stone foundation with his arm stretched across the doorway like a gate.

“Wait,” he said brusquely.

“What are we waiting for?”

His voice took on a note of grudging admiration. “Rose.”

“Look at you,” Gamzee said, standing over Terezi as she struggled to rise, mewling. “What kind of troll are you?” He tipped her over with the toe of his shoe and leaned down to snap his teeth in her face. “Pathetic wiggler. Disarmed and disgraced by the lowest of the motherfucking low. Tell me again what a mistake it was to kill that blueblood bitch! She would have done us all the way she did Tavbro, if you had your way. You were enthralled by her arrogance, and after she was gone you filled the motherfucking wound with me.” He smiled wickedly and continued in a singsong tone. “Here I am, pretty little enemy, little thorn, you. Gonna wreck me too? Better do it now, afore _I_ wreck _you_.”

She reared her head back like a snake and spat in his eye.

Chuckling, he wiped the spittle off with his torn hand, leaving a purple streak in its place.

“You’re despicable,” she told him.

“There’s my landshark,” he replied fondly, squatting on his heels.

Terezi snuffled. “You know what she meant to us. To Karkat, to everyone. Without the mother…” she curled forward, clutching her elbows. “We’re finished. There’s nothing left to fight for.”

“You’re wrong, little sister. We can finish what he started. There’s no salve for our ill,” Gamzee snarled. “We’re motherfucking viral, us. Hatched of violence and violence our end. Can’t cure cancer with _policy_ , law-bringer. Got to CUT IT THE MOTHERFUCK OUT.” He scooped up a thin, fragile shell in one massive paw and ran a finger through the jade green blood coating its inner surface.

“Grub sauce?” he offered. She recoiled in horror. “What’s wrong, wicked sis?” he asked, holding the taloned digit up for inspection. “Lost your taste for blood?” He stuck it into his mouth. “I’m tired of this bland motherfucking diet,” he said, sucking the carnage from his finger. “Take a whiff. That’s breakfast, sister. We’ll feast on our sins before we up and motherfucking perish.”

Trembling with rage, Terezi whimpered, “You sick shit.” She gulped air, folded in on herself until there was nothing left but the pointy bits. “I should rip out your globes and shove them down your throat. I should – I should flay you from chute to nook, and fill your miserable carcass with salt.”

“Here I am, motherfucker,” he said. “Do it.”

Terezi spread her claws and buried them in the soil. She lowered her head to her balled-up knees in shame.

“That’s what I thought,” Gamzee laughed, taking her skull between his gigantic hands and lifting her into the air. “Some troll you are, sweetling.” Screeching, she kicked futilely at his groin, but came up short.

Doomed Dave’s silence outraged me. “How can you just stand there?”

“This is about the fiftieth time I’ve seen this scene. I’m over it,” he muttered unconvincingly.

“I’m going to help her,” I said. I reached for my sword.

“No!” Dave said quickly, grabbing my shoulder. “Asshole, get back here! She’s buying us time!”

I rounded on him, ready to stab something, but he held up his hands. “It’s got to be this way. Terezi goes alone or we lose our chance. If anybody else gets close, he does his juggalo thing before Rose gets here. Please,” he pleaded. “I’m ready for this day to be over.”

Throwing my sword at his feet in disgust, I crossed my arms and waited.

Gamzee, who’d been biting passionately at his girlfriend’s face, stopped with a surprised grunt and pulled back as far as she would let him – his tongue was outstretched, pinned to Terezi’s fangs. He hooked a thumb around the base of each horn and squeezed as his knuckles grew white, straining under the skin like dull knives. Wailing, she spat out his tongue along with a clotted gob of violet blood.

“Won’t kill me after all my transgressions,” he said thickly. “Won’t even try, wretched girl. What’s this getup you got yourself up in? Where’s your ill-starred sigil? You going native on me now, scourged sister?” Terezi, thrashing, ripped at his wrists violently, trying to get him to loosen his excruciating grip on her horns.

“Sis, YOU GOING HUMAN?” he roared, as her voice rose in a banshee shriek. First one, then the other of her horns snapped off with deafening cracks. Doomed Dave flinched at each report as it echoed off the side of the building like a gunshot.

Terezi fell to the ground, convulsing and screaming loud enough to wake the dead. Her scalp spouted two teal fountains, dousing the ground and Gamzee’s shins in splashes of color like thick paint. He watched her rolling in agony with arms hanging limp at his sides.

“No place for the likes of us in their crimson dynasty. THEY DON’T WANT YOUR TRASHBLOOD TARNISH, you sightless piece of shit. And neither the fuck do I.”

I didn’t realize how hard I was clenching my jaw until I had to pry it open to say, “She’s going to bleed to death.”

Dave closed his eyes. “It’ll slow down in a minute.”

Just then, we heard a shout from the opposite side of the house: Rose, at last.

Immaculate in a sea of beads and froth, she stood there with skirts piled over one arm and the other, shrouded in a lacy glove, raised to the heavens in petition.

“ _Ils peuvent venir, les tigres, avec leurs griffes!_ ” she called, whether in challenge or command, I wasn’t sure; but the sky descended around her in answer, stormclouds gathering out of thin air and forming a seething, organic mass of smoke and electricity that embraced her like a lover and swept her away.

“What did she say?” asked my brother’s mirror image.

“’Let the tigers come with their claws,’” I translated. I didn’t recognize the quote, but I didn’t think it was Voltaire this time.

“Perfect,” he answered, breaking into a rare smile. An instant later, he drew his sword and charged the enormous troll with a wordless battle cry. Gamzee turned away from his kismesis so slowly that I thought he couldn’t possibly stop Dave’s lightning-fast attack.

When he did respond, lifting his hand almost tentatively, the counterstroke was instantaneous. The shockwave of sheer, blinding panic was so physical – like hitting a glacier at terminal velocity – that it took a few seconds for my heart to start beating again.

Have you ever felt adrenaline seize your body all at once? It fucking _hurts_.

Kanaya was halfway from the door to the furnace when she was caught in the blast. She folded like a paper doll, but once on the ground, her hands began to inch forward like ghostly spiders. She slipped them into the grass and started dragging herself across the ground a fistful at a time.

The broken sword fell from Doomed Dave’s nerveless fingers and landed in the dirt at his feet. He swayed, miraculously still upright despite what must have been paralyzing dread crystalizing in his veins.

“What do we have here?” Gamzee asked, his mouth curving into a repulsive sneer. “Your replacement Knight has come to save you, wicked girl.” He had to raise his voice to hear himself over her endless, throat-wrenching shrieks. “Did you take him back before or after you mangled my beloved’s heart?” Terezi flailed in the dirt, tears and snot and blood and other unspecified fluids mixing with the rich peat to coat her new dress with a gritty greenish paste. I think she might have been too far gone to even recognize spoken language.

Gamzee’s hand lashed out, taking Dave’s clone by the throat, and I realized far too late that I didn’t want to watch him do something stupid either, but my muscles felt like iron chains winched against my skeleton and I couldn’t look away.

“First the drinker, then my blood brother, and now you have fallen back into your sinful ways, sister. Don’t you know that HUMANS DON’T BELONG IN QUADRANTS?” He shook Doomed Dave, dislodging his sunglasses, revealing eyes pinned tight and rolling in their sockets.

“What is he to you?” he bellowed, without satisfaction. “TEREZI, WHAT IS THIS PALLID SLUG TO YOU?”

Dave’s neck went _crunch_ , and he fell limp to the ground.

Just then, Rose rejoined the party, descending from the sky like a _deus ex machina_ of Erinyean rage. Her dress, borne aloft by static, billowed around her, but her eyes blazed fever-bright with obsession, and her exposed skin was leaden and crawling, rustling like cockroaches.

Probably it was just the chucklevoodoo, but let me tell you, the sight of Rose plugged in to her eldritch horrors was a scene from a nightmare. She was recognizably no longer human. She flowed as she moved, dripping motor oil that left a snail’s trail of black slime behind her. Her limbs bent fluidly as though her bones were as pliable as willow switches. Her voice was legion, I kid you not. She was fucking terrifying.

There was a glass ceiling between me and my higher functions. I surged against it, probing for cracks, but it was like trying to break through an ice floe; the force just slid sideways.

 _Something’s gotta give_ , I thought, and felt myself shatter. The splinters that were still embedded in the glass wall dragged it down into the gloom of my subconscious, and the rest surfaced, reforming as a unit to take back control of my body. You’d think breaking yourself would get easier with practice, but it only ever gets worse.

A hundred feet away, Rose raised a lash of thorns and cracked it powerfully, driving a snarling Gamzee away from his spademate step by step. It was like watching a bear trying to fight a thunderstorm, swiping ineffectually at the blast with his clumsy paws – but this storm was condensed and poured into a white gown, all Fury Leika fulminant wrath.

Behind her, Kanaya was breaking her nails against the oven door, her smeared blood cooking brown from the heat of the metal.

I did what any sane person would do. I ran.

And fuck you if you assume I was running away.

With one step I was through Gamzee’s fear bubble and into the house. In six I was hammering down the nursery door.

John hauled it open, ready to waste my time. I dodged around him and into the room, which was filled with a tangible miasma of homegrown human alarm. The children were on the floor with Jane, who had her brother’s photo album open in her lap, trying to keep them distracted. Roxy stood by the window. She clutched one elbow against her side, opening and closing her robot hand anxiously.

Looking at me over her shoulder, she said, “I’m scared, Dirk.”

I joined her in looking out the glass pane, which she tapped with one nail, pointing at her sister, who spun like a ballet dancer and brought the whip down on Gamzee’s arm. Heedless of the razor-sharp thorns, he wrapped his hand around it and yanked, dragging the handle from the Seer’s fingers. She drew her wands as webs of lighting raced across her body and burrowed into the tentacles of smoke solidifying in a half-moon rosette over her shoulders.

“It was so hard for her to come back last time, remember? What if she can’t, this time?” She shivered. “Look at her,” she said sorrowfully. “She’s already one of them.”

Down on the ground, Rose stretched out one massive tentacle and looped it around the troll’s waist. She rose into the air, thrust upward by a throng of writhing appendages erupting from the tatters of her skirt. Gamzee hacked at them with Dave’s shattered sword as fast as they appeared. The severed tips fell to the ground, where they dissolved into goo that thinned and soaked into the soil like molten blackcurrant jelly.

I took her hand. “Let’s go help her.” She nodded, eyes shining.

“I’m coming too!” Jane dropped the book and threw herself forward, clinging to Roxy’s other hand. As we passed John, she caught him by the arm and yanked us to a halt.

“Oh no, hero, you’re staying here,” she said, shoving him backwards through the door. Roxy and I exchanged glances and found ourselves in agreement. Then, with John’s jilted stare boring into our backs, we took off.

It’s pretty much impossible to flashstep anywhere with two people in tow – at least without someone getting hurt – so we ran, leaping down the stairs four at a time. I shouted over my shoulder for Roxy to do her thing as soon as we reached the kitchen.

Just outside the door, Jane hit the chucklevoodoo and crumpled. Roxy’s blissful blanket protected her from the debilitating terror, and though I still felt it lurking inside me, it was partitioned away. We made sure Jane was out of the way and cautiously began to advance toward the fray.

Gamzee had fought his way to the center of Rose’s tangled, seething mass, ripping off tentacles with his bare hands and flinging them across the lawn.

“Abomination!” he roared. “What did you do with the barkfiend bitch?”

Rose opened her mouth and gargled an incomprehensible reply. Her features were melting like wax, dripping black beads onto her snow-white corset.

“Where is she?” Gamzee screeched, wrenching at an arm that was slithering around his neck and crushing it in his fist. “Where is the green-eyed witch? He said if I made an end, he and his consort would return to rule the leavings. He said if I ripped out the halfblood, HE WOULD COME BACK.”

 _Ripped out the halfblood…_ I remembered the green stain on Dave’s shirt, too bright to belong to Terezi or Kanaya or even to the nascent mother grub; unnaturally bright, a green the same color as Jade’s eyes.

He plunged his hand into Rose’s midsection, tearing handfuls of ebony stuff free. Her stomach oozed blood as black and thick as pitch. She took hold of his horns and levered his head back, shrieking in his face as she crushed his chin to her breastbone, and he closed his jaundiced eyes against the rush of air.

“You don’t understand,” he answered her, suddenly quiet and frighteningly lucid, struggling to work his jaw against the devastating power of her embrace. “He has to come back so we can get free. Let our sickness run its course ere it spreads to your hive.” A black droplet left a tearstreak across his upturned cheek.

“Gamzee,” said Roxy at my side, “this is not the way.” He convulsed, fighting to escape Rose’s murky quagmire, tearing gashes through her soft body with his claws.

“Can we get closer?” she asked me, _sotto voce_. We were at the edge of an inky bog that sucked at our shoes, where Rose’s melting tendrils soaked into the dirt, turning it into a tar pit. From the way she was treading in it, churning up froth with her seething tentacles, it could have been fathomless.

I shook my head mutely.

“No problem, honey, I think I can do it from here,” she sighed, closing her sable-colored eyes and humming under her breath. Then she began to sing:

_Go to sleep, you little baby_  
_Go to sleep, you little baby_  
_Your momma’s gone away and your daddy’s gone to stay_  
_Didn’t leave nobody but the baby_

From the first notes, the chill in the air began to ease. The movement of Gamzee’s flailing limbs grew less frantic, and he eventually sagged in Rose’s arms.

As Roxy continued singing, with a voice as warm and rich as red velvet, her sister drew close to the edge of her pool and deposited Gamzee’s drowsing body in the grass. The dark soil rippled and roiled around her waist like quicksand, reflecting the movement of the octopus arms writhing under its surface.

 _Don't you weep, pretty baby_  
_Don't you weep, pretty baby_  
_You and me and the devil makes three_  
_Don't need no other loving baby_

Rose, her arms folded and resting on the solid ground, precipitated black raindrops from the canopy of tentacles overhead. She re-formed something close to a human mouth and called out to Kanaya.

Zombie-like, Kanaya walked over and fell to her knees in front of her matesprit.

“How could you?” she said dully. “Never again. You promised.”

Rose stretched out one tentacle and caressed the troll’s luminescent cheek.

“I can’t lose you both in one day,” Kanaya said, white ash spilling between her fingers. Behind her, the oven door was hanging open by one hinge, its contents charred to dust. Roxy looked like she was going to cry, and I was about to take her hand when I heard a noise behind us.

“Don’t waste your time on that asshole,” Dave said. Jane squeaked in surprise at hearing his disembodied voice – obviously disembodied, because his corpse was right there in front of her, but he strode past her alive and well and demanded that she help him with Terezi.

Rose burbled. Then she made a noise like hacking up a hairball, and said in barely recognizable English: “The victory condition. I did not know. Roxy –“

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” Roxy gulped from her seat on Gamzee’s chest. “Plus you saved Terezi. Um…“

“Yes, she’s still alive. Somehow,” Jane said in a tone of disbelief.

“The mother. I believe.” Rose’s tongue broke off and splashed to the ground. It took her a few moments to make a new one. Her summer shower had intensified to a steady drizzle, as bits and pieces of her overhanging arms liquefied and fell.

“What? Believe what?” Kanaya asked desperately.

The young horrorterror’s second tongue worked a little better. “You’ve been my light ever since the day we met,” she said, blinking her polished hematite eyes. “Let me be yours for once.” She sloughed a weighty tentacle that crashed into the pool, showering everyone with black mud. Her left shoulder had started to soften and deform, so she shifted her weight to the opposite arm.

Her dissolution quickly became a downpour of inky flesh that exploded on impact, spraying licorice-colored gobbets that vanished in seconds. Kanaya, nearly hysterical with grief, began picking up handfuls of the stuff and dropping it into the only receptacle she had in her sylladex – a bucket.

“I believe,” Rose repeated, and her jaw fell off. Then her right arm tore at the shoulder, and she began sinking rapidly into the swampy pool.

Kanaya reached for her other hand. It squished to mush between her fingers. _“I hate you, Rose Lalonde!”_ she screamed impotently.

Rose, deprived of a working mouth, crinkled the corners of her eyes at her matesprit. She didn’t release the smile as the mire swallowed her throat, then her nose, and finally closed over her unbroken gaze.

Kanaya let loose a heart-wrenching howl, while the rest of us watched the spot where Rose disappeared in stunned silence.

Dave was the first to recover, kicking the ground and adjusting his shades. Then he gathered Terezi’s limp form in his arms and trudged inside while the rest of us pretended that we could be useful while we internalized what had just happened.

Failing in her valiant efforts to revive Rose and the mother grub from sludge and ash, respectively, Jane eventually returned inside to check on John. She did not need to be convinced not to kiss Doomed Dave.

I circumnavigated Kanaya, who was kneeling in the mud with her arms wrapped around her pail, and approached Roxy. She was balanced on top of her charge, stomach to stomach, with her chin propped on an elbow and her cheeks slick with tears.

“She was wonderful, wasn’t she? A total badass, just like my mom was,” she said, smiling wetly. She eyed the deceptively still pool of soupy mud. “How long do you think she’s had Aradia’s specibus?”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s not like Aradia was using it. I think a more important question is: where the hell is his moirail?”

Roxy shrugged, tucking a lock of hair behind Gamzee’s spiraling horns and stroking his cheek with a metallic finger. “He’s not scary at all like this. He’s just a big teddy bear.”

He did kind of look like a bear, if you squinted hard enough… a hibernating, man-eating grizzly. “He shelled the mother grub and roasted her in her own oven,” I said bluntly. “We should kill him before he wakes up.”

“Don’t you dare,” Dave said, returning to dispose of his own cadaver. “Terezi gets dibs. She’ll decide what to do with him when she wakes up.”

“His kismesis?” I asked doubtfully. “Not exactly an impartial judge, dude.”

“Either way, it’s not your call,” he replied, rolling the lifeless body in a sheet to make it easier to drag. He started for the orchard, hunched over his burden.

Dave was right, of course. I didn’t want to stick my nose in what could easily evolve into a blackrom clusterfuck. As long as there wasn’t an active threat, it was better to let trolls deal with troll problems.

Unwilling to try to move Gamzee’s (nontrivial) dead weight, we left him there, comatose, and walked Kanaya back to her room. The grieving troll, gripping her pail inconsolably, declined Roxy’s offer to help her sleep. Still, she promised to come back by in a few minutes to check in, and that she’d sleep over that night. Her tone strongly implied that Kanaya didn’t have a choice in the matter.

In the back stairwell, Roxy stopped short and said, “Oh look, there the hell is his moirail.” Karkat was sprawled headfirst on the stairs, unconscious and bleeding copiously from a shallow cut on his forehead. From the dried blood on his clothes, he’d been there a while. He didn’t remember anything.

John – who’d been watching from the nursery window – was visibly distraught. When we told him Rose’s last words, he said something about optimism that was lost between hiccups. He squeezed Roxy tightly as they rocked back and forth, and I left to check on my bro and his little monster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Kan. Jane chapter in two weeks.
> 
> Theme for Gamzee: ["Radioactive" - Imagine Dragons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ktvTqknDobU)
> 
> [Gorgeous fanart](http://blueraspberrybubblegum.tumblr.com/post/151640097629/big-bad-grimbark-man-blueraspberrybubblegum) by [banishedquasiroyal](https://banishedquasiroyal.tumblr.com/)! <3


	17. Jane: Defend.

“What are we going to do with you?” Roxy muses, rocking on her heels. Her prisoner doesn’t answer. She looks to you, twisting her hair into a knot with both hands and securing it with bobby pins. Her marvelous new hand never pulls the strands. The one thing that Roxy complains about is its weight – she’s so paranoid she’s going to turn into some weirdo with one super muscly arm that she’s started getting up some mornings at the crack of dawn to train with Dirk.

You lower yourself carefully to the floor beside her and contemplate Gamzee’s hulking form snoozing happily on his mat. “I don’t know, Roxy. I’m afraid of what Terezi will do to him when she wakes up.”

Roxy tilts her head. “I mean, I was thinking we could use him as a body pillow, but feel him.” She picks up his limp wrist and drops it. “The dude is ice cold. Nobody wants to snuggle up to that.”

You breathe a private sigh. God forbid you try to have an earnest conversation about what happened on the morning of the solstice. “I’m serious, Roxy. And that’s assuming he even survives that long. How many times did you say Kanaya’s tried to break in here?”

“Twice, so far,” Roxy says, studying her charge’s hands, which make her own look like a child’s. “Last time she was shaking so bad she dropped her chainsaw and nearly amputated my hand all over again. Karkat’s talking to her right now – every once and awhile I can hear him shouting all the way down the hall, just like old times.”

“’Once in a while,’” you correct her automatically. It rolls off, like rain from a duck.

“I think I have the right color to do his nails. Sit tight with him for a sec, would you?” She leaps to her feet and trots through the door, leaving you alone with the troll you thought was your friend.

 _Look at us_ , you think, _wearing ourselves thin with grief and worry, and the culprit is the only one without a care in the world._ If he knew everyone else was clashing over his fate, would he be resting so comfortably?

And if they knew what you knew, would that change their decision?

“What are we going to do with you?” you repeat Roxy’s question quietly, just as she returns, dropping an armful of beauty supplies onto Gamzee’s chest.

“We are going to make him pretty,” she answers, and amends, “Prettier. He’s already pretty fucking pretty.” She claps her hands in anticipation and reaches for the hairspray.

You roll your eyes. Even if you did find Gamzee attractive, his scars are a nasty piece of work. “Do you know anyone who is not, quote, ‘smoking hot’?”

Roxy opens her mouth, closes it again, and purses her lips. “Even I thought my mom was effing gorgeous, and that was before she morphed into a kickass sexy bride tentacle monster. So no. It’s true, I’m surrounded by hotties. It’s distracting and awesome and terrible because ninety-nine percent of them are off limits.” She pokes you right in the fat. “Even you are looking finer by the minute, Crockster. All glowing and, you know, _lush_. Wait a sec.” She stops, adopting an expression of fierce concentration. “Yep, it’s official. I have a boner.”

“Gross, Roxy, don’t make me puke,” you tell her, laughing. She’s so good at cheering you up. “John might get a little upset if you start working up random people without consulting him first.”

“Naaahh. He doesn’t mind if I crush a little. Long as nothing comes of it.” Combing Gamzee’s curls into cornrows, she twists each one tightly and secures it with a tiny glitter clip. He looks younger and more effeminate with each deftly placed accessory.

“Must be nice, being in such a loving, trusting relationship… How did you get so lucky, Roxy?”

Absentmindedly, she hums back at you, violently shaking several vials of polish in barely-discernible shades of lavender. Removing the brush, she tests each one on his thumbnail before deciding to alternate all three in stripes. The shape of his claws makes this a difficult task, but your oh-so-spirited best friend is bound and determined to take advantage of this golden opportunity.

She puffs out her cheeks, blowing on Gamzee’s nails to help them dry. Between breaths, she answers, “It helps that we’re madly in love. Janey, call me dumb, but I live and breathe for that boy, and that’s god’s own truth.”

She holds his paw in the light so she can pretend to study her handiwork while actually watching you out of the corner of her eye. “Why so melancholy, honey bunch? Are you already sorry you broke up with your buttmunch heartthrob?”

“Oh, no, I was just thinking out loud. I’ve made solid progress in the opposite direction, actually.” Your lips curl in a thin smile, rueful but businesslike, and you pat your belly. “I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

“Good,” she says, letting out a long, loud breath. “Because if you ask me, the chances that he’s not hooking up with Aradia by the time they get back are slim to none. You shoulda seen the eyes he was giving her over dinner, damn, that boy could charm snakes with a smile and a wink.” Catching sight of your expression, her mouth snaps shut.

By your reckoning, he’d have had exactly five dinners between the evening you dumped him and the morning he left. He moves fast. You wonder – not for the first time – if he knows what he’s doing, or if he thinks people throw themselves at him out of nowhere, like that’s just how the world works.

And then, thinking about Aradia’s bright smile and long, sultry eyelashes and her passion for shedding light on the dark places of the world, you think, _holy crap, how did I not see this before?_ Jeez, they’re perfect for each other, and they could go as Death and the Handmaid for Halloween to boot. How cute would that be?

“You good?” Roxy asks cautiously.

You let out your breath, mustering a surprisingly sincere smile. “Yeah. I think I am.”

Terezi finally arrives as Roxy’s putting the final touches on Gamzee’s eyeshadow. She whips into the room, all business, but when she catches whiff of his cosmetic transformation, she breaks into a demonic grin. You wonder how she can even smell anything over the powder and paint fumes, but you’ve become increasingly more comfortable with employing a semi-permanent suspension of disbelief.

“Terezi!” Roxy exclaims with delight, wrapping her arms around the troll’s ankles. “You’re awake!”

“Indeed,” she answers, her toothy smile growing cold as she focuses on her kismesis. Her hands go to work, thumb flicking across each of her fingertips in turn. With a start, you realize that what you always assumed was a nervous tick is, in reality, a compulsive claw-sharpening habit. That’s not intimidating, or anything.

“I should tear his beating heart from his chest,” she buzzes, her face contorting in a rictus of rage. “I wonder if I can just… just sort of reach inside… and….“ Her outstretched talons sketch an alarming gesture in the air.

“No!” you cry, throwing yourself across his chest. Roxy and Terezi both look at you like you’re deranged.

“Mine!” Terezi snaps, her teeth coming dangerously close to your face. Roxy, eyes fearful, hesitantly reaches for the troll’s pulse point.

Your throat tight and dry, you give her one word. Just one word to hold her back.

“Trial.”

She hisses viciously, spraying you with spittle.

“Please.” She entrusted you with him once before. She’ll do it again, she has to. “A fair trial.”

Roxy joins in, voice shaking. “Please, Terezi.” _Thank you, you wonderful girl_ , you think silently.

“Who will speak for him? _You?_ ” she sneers.

“Isn’t that why you asked me to investigate him?” you ask her, as evenly as your spit-dampened composure can manage. “To gather evidence?” You take a breath and hold it, waiting.

“Yessssssssss,” she answers, finally, the word whistling through her teeth like a release valve venting steam. “That’s what we’ll do.” She closes her fist, and Roxy’s hand falls.

“But make no mistake!” she adds, swiveling mid-stalk. She grasps at the air, brandishing the dragon-headed cane that isn’t there. “He will be served as his crimes merit. No less, no more. It begins tomorrow.”

You incline your head mutely as she resumes her exit with a strange bounce in her step.

“Really, Jane?” Roxy squeaks.

You turn to study the accused. His cheekbones shimmer with body glitter. “God help me,” you murmur.

“Well, at least he’ll be fancy for his execution,” she harrumphs, resuming her makeover conquest. “Where are you going?”

“I need to interview witnesses,” you answer, straightening your skirt. There’s so much to do before tomorrow comes.

“I’ll be here!” she calls at your back. “Guarding this hardened criminal! All by myself!”

 _Yes_ , you think to yourself, already hip-deep in legal strategy. _Everyone has an important job to do._

* * *

The following day dawns harsh and bright, rousing you from the writing desk where you fell asleep late last night, organizing your pitifully small stack of 3 x 5 notecards. Breakfast is brief, cold, and tense.

Six of you march out to the front lawn where Terezi’s courtblock has been assembled out of planks from the half-dismantled barn. You take your seat on the left end of the long table, as Karkat and Gamzee have already bundled themselves into the center of the bench. Dave lounges easily against the judges’ podium, and Roxy, situated well back from the rest of the proceedings, leans against the foot of a stunted tree. With your assorted getups and mismatched sunglasses – Roxy’s are heart-shaped – you feel like a member of an especially shabby espionage team.

As the clock strikes eight, Kanaya, bedecked in full mourning attire, slides into place at the far end of the table.

“All rise,” drawls Dave, and Terezi marches up to her seat in a tight black dress that screams cold-blooded killer. You stand, feeling something catch on a splinter and rip. You instantly rue the decision to wear stockings. It’s not like anybody here is going to be taking you seriously. Your defendant is wearing Pretty Pretty Princess jewelry, for christsakes.

“Who vouchsafes the security of this courtblock in the event that the use of force is required to maintain order?” Terezi calls.

“I do,” Roxy answers, sounding distant. You glance at her in mild surprise. Tucked up amongst the roots of her tree, her liquid black eyes are placid under the wide brim of a woven straw hat. She’s already taken off her shoes and dug her toes into the dirt. Well, as long as she doesn’t fall asleep, there’s no reason she shouldn’t make herself comfortable.

“Excellent,” Terezi says, oozing satisfaction. “You may be seated.”

Dave clears his throat. “Let the accused stand and state his name for the record.”

Nothing happens. You and Karkat glare in unison at Gamzee, who is visibly nodding off.

Karkat stands, looking decidedly uncomfortable in a secondhand suit that John must have outgrown years earlier. “Your Honor, the accused is still loopy from being sedated for the last _six days_. I think we should reconvene tomorrow, when he’s more fit to stand trial.”

“Motion denied. Sit down, Karkat,” Terezi answers. He collapses back into his seat wearily.

She grips the edge of the podium and pulls herself forward like the figurehead of a harpy on a ship’s prow. You are reasonably sure that her feet aren’t touching the stool. _“Wake up, you miserable shitstain!”_ she shouts.

Dave winces. You can tell he’s already regretting agreeing to play bailiff in this demented sideshow.

Gamzee shoots to his feet with a start. “Sorry, T,” he rumbles contritely.

“Your name,” Dave reminds him.

“Gamzee Makara.” The giant troll yawns, his jaw snapping shut with a _click_.

“Mr. Makara, you are hereby accused of one count of murder in the first degree, two counts of murder in the second degree, four counts of assault and battery, and seven counts of psychic assault. Let it be understood that the charge of murder in the first degree is a crime of high treason, for which the penalty is death.” You hear Karkat’s sharp intake of breath before Terezi continues.

“How do you plead?”

Karkat surges to his feet. “He pleads not guilty, Your Honor!”

“Let the accused speak for himself. If you interrupt the proceedings one more time, Mr. Vantas, you will be thrown out of the courtblock, is that understood?”

He mutters, “Yes, Your Honor,” and looks up at his moirail with shrouded eyes.

“Not guilty, I motherfucking guess,” Gamzee grumbles, blinking lazily down at Karkat, who has to flap his hands to free them from the table, where he’s gouged out ten triangle-shaped claw marks.

You let out a relieved breath. The plea was your biggest hurdle today; it’s all downhill from here.

“Who represents the defendant?” Dave asks.

You stand, resigning yourself to the complete destruction of your stockings before the day is over. “I do.”

“State your name for the record.”

“Jane Crocker.”

“You may be seated.”

“You know,” Terezi inserts as you fold yourself again, “we didn’t have any use for a defense counsel back on Alternia. This is highly irregular.”

“Your Honor?” you say, uncertainly.

“You see, it is very unusual for the defendant to plead ‘not guilty’ and yet refuse to speak in his own defense. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?” She’s trying to provoke you. You hold your tongue. Turning to her bailiff, she prompts, “Doesn’t that seem strange, Dave?”

“Terezi,” he sighs. “Let’s just get this over with. Who represents the plaintiff?”

Kanaya pushes herself to her feet, arms encased in elegant ebony silk from her elbows to the last joint of each finger, leaving her black-lacquered nails exposed. The dress itself is stiffly starched and vaguely Victorian, and a hand-knotted veil flutters in front of her mouth as she speaks. “I do,” she says, her voice heavy with sorrow.

 _That’s it, he’s doomed_ , you sigh. Why didn’t you think to ask who the prosecutor would be? For some reason, you thought this whole thing would boil down to you and Terezi butting heads. You must have been crazy to think you could do this. Nobody’s going to support you in this impossible undertaking. Nobody else thinks Gamzee is innocent, not even Gamzee.

Oh crud, she’s still talking. “If I may, Your Honor.” Kanaya waits for Terezi’s permission before proceeding. “What is your relationship to the accused?”

“He is my kismesis,” she snarls, biting off each syllable.  Gamzee flicks his eyes to her face in surprise, as if he doesn’t quite believe that she would still want to claim him.

“Thank you, Your Honor. Motion to adjourn until a neutral judge may be appointed by the court.”

Dave opens his mouth, but Terezi beats him to the punch.

“It is my lawful duty to ensure that Mr. Makara is brought to justice! I will fulfill that duty to the fullest extent of my abilities, irrespective of emotional entanglement. I suggest you do the same, counselor, or you will find yourself replaced by a prosecutor whose chief interest is not vengeance!”

Dave agrees. “This week’s been tragic enough. We don’t need any more blood on our hands.”

“Innocent blood,” Terezi corrects. “The blood of the guilty will be spilled in accordance with the law.” She raps her knuckles on the podium in the absence of a gavel, and announces, “Motion denied.” Kanaya acquiesces with dignity, but the eerie translucence of her hide tells a different story.

You’re pretty sure you understand what’s going on: she thinks Terezi will try to avoid the death penalty for her kismesis. Ordinarily, this might be desirable – Dave’s right, you think, hangings are a really shitty way to launch a civilization – only Gamzee’s got a record, and Kanaya, who has so much to grieve, is out for blood… figuratively, for once.

If someone were to ask you a week ago what punishment would be suitable for a person who was singlehandedly responsible for the impending extinction of an entire race of sentient beings, you might have found yourself cheering for the other team. But these people are family, damn it, and death does not pay for death. You simply cannot condone the execution of one of your own. There has to be another way.

Dirk thinks the trolls should settle this amongst themselves, and he’s got a point: their legal system is so foreign to you that it’s impossible not to step on toes – where would humans even fit in on the hemospectrum, anyway? – and their idea of justice might not look anything like yours, particularly for a crime as heinous as the murder of their mother.

On the other hand, these five trolls are the only ones left, and two of them happen to be romantically involved with the defendant. Losing him could throw their fragile social dynamic into chaos, not to mention creating unnecessary hardship for the survivors, who’re already in mourning.

You honestly believe the decision does belong to Terezi. No one has a better perspective to weigh his crimes, and no one has a stronger commitment to justice. And if, in the end, she can’t bring herself to see him hang… you’re okay with that. It’s not fighting dirty if it saves a life.

You feel the paradigm shift. Terezi isn’t thirsting for blood; she’s looking for answers, she’s looking for an out. By Alternian law, she’s required to execute Gamzee for treason, but Sanctuary is your home now, and the old ways have become obsolete. After all, she’s a living testament to how troll justice perpetuates an endless cycle of suffering. Maybe she just doesn’t want to be a killer anymore.

She asked you to monitor Gamzee because her Sight showed her that you could help him, here in this courtroom. She wears a cocktail dress not to taunt or unnerve, but to distance herself from the Terezi who once was – the Terezi who, just yesterday, wanted to tear him to shreds.

She’s not your opponent. She’s your ally, and she will come with you if you show her the way.

As Dirk’s testimony begins, you find yourself listening with half your attention piqued for clues while the rest focuses on tomorrow’s agenda. Dave’s information will be vital; he’s the only one who can tell you what news his doomed clone brought from the alternate futures where Gamzee managed to wreak even more mayhem. You’d also like to have another word with Roxy. There is one witness whose testimony, if you can secure it – if it would even be admissible in court – one witness who could turn this whole magic school bus around.

Dirk tells the events he witnessed in a simple but straightforward manner, leaving nothing out, not even the compromising stuff. When he gets to the part where Gamzee was talking about dismembering Jade, Karkat, who’s been increasingly nauseated-looking throughout the morning, swallows hard and looks at his moirail. His incredibly expressive face conveys a deep sense of betrayal. Gamzee, who’s been making daisy chains instead of listening, shows his first sign of remorse since the trial began: not for his crimes, but for upsetting his best friend. He offers him a bracelet of wild violets, which Karkat proceeds to denude of each and every petal.

Sigh.

Kanaya gets to cross-examine him first. She forces Dirk to reiterate the part about Gamzee’s sickening hunger for the charred flesh of the mother grub. Then she focuses on the threats: that he seemingly killed Dave for being close to Terezi; that he implied that Rose and Jade deserved the same fate; that he did indeed destroy Rose soon thereafter; and that he demanded Jade’s whereabouts so he could “make an end.”

“’Rip out the halfblood.’ What did he mean by that?” Kanaya murmurs.

Dirk frowns. “At first I thought he was referring to Jade being half-canine, but that doesn’t make sense, does it?”

I hop to my feet. “Objection, Your Honor!” I call out. “Speculation.”

“Until such time as the defendant agrees to speak on his own behalf, speculation is all we have,” Terezi says. “Overruled.” She gestures for Dirk to continue.

“The thing that I keep getting hung up on is the green blood on Doomed Dave’s tuxedo. It doesn’t match up.”

“Whose was it? Was it teal, like Terezi’s?” Dirk shakes his head mutely. “Could it have been mine, or the mother grub’s?”

“No,” he says. “It was the wrong color. It was lime green.”

“Whose do you think it was?”

“This is just a wild guess…” He turns to his right, catches Dave’s blank-lensed stare. “Jade’s pregnant,” he says. “He wanted to eliminate the fetus.”

“Don’t infants have the same crimson blood as other humans?” Kanaya asks with malevolent mildness.

“It’s not human,” Dirk says flatly, still addressing his brother. “Sorry, dude.”

“Already knew that,” Dave shrugs, giving an admirable impression of indifference. “Same as the one she miscarried. I nearly beat the shit out of the other me when he told me he sent her away to keep her ‘safe.’ Who’s gonna stop the bleeding this time? _Jake?_ ” he scoffs.

You sneak a glance at Karkat’s sickly countenance. Obviously, he did _not_ know. He opens his mouth to pant, like he’s having trouble breathing, then he gives a ragged cough. Once he starts, he can’t seem to stop, hacking harder and harder with each stare that he accumulates.

Kanaya lays her hand on his clenched fist. “Hang in there,” she instructs him sternly. “I’m not through with you yet.” Yanking his hand away and shoving to his feet, he lurches out across the grass and disappears around the corner of the barn. His coughing follows him out of sight.

“Do you have any more questions for the witness?” Terezi asks.

“No, Your Honor,” Kanaya answers smugly.

“Ms. Crocker, you may begin your cross-examination.”

You stand. “Gamzee referred to a third party multiple times when he was talking to Rose. ‘He said if I made an end.’ ‘He said if I ripped out the halfblood.’ Who is this ‘he’?”

“ _Objec-_ “

“Overruled!” Terezi says. “We have already determined that speculation is admissible in this court. Answer the question, Mr. Strider.”

“No idea,” he says.

“’He and his consort.’ Who might that be?” Dirk shrugs. “’He has to come back so we can get free.’ Who is it that’s holding Gamzee in thrall?”

“I don’t know, Jane,” he says, open-faced. “I just figured he was crazy.”

“Let me put it another way. In the game, Gamzee served a master who he both worshipped and feared, and whose downfall he ultimately helped achieve. Who was that entity?”

“English is dead,” Dave interrupts. “I killed him myself.”

“What’s your point?”

“Dirk’s right. Gamzee isn’t possessed, he’s just a fucking psychopath.”

Terezi pounds the podium. “Dave Strider, so help me, you will stay out of this!” He tosses his head and settles back against the wood, arms crossed.

“Just one more question, Your Honor,” you continue calmly. “Dirk, there is one other person you know with green blood. Someone whom Lord English was known to hate. Someone whose murder he arranged once already. Who is that person?”

“His sister. Calliope. Who is also dead,” he says wearily.

“Thank you. That’s all I have.”

“Am I free to go, Your Honor?”

Terezi flicks her nails. “Go, get out of here,” she says. “Thank you for your time.” He silently walks away, not up the hill but past you, into the barn. As Karkat slinks back to the bench, you hear the skeletal griffin’s screech of greeting. It cuts through the air like a hot knife.

“That’s enough of this madness for today. This courtblock is adjourned.” Terezi knocks the wood three times, then ruefully shakes out her sore hand. “We’ll pick up tomorrow morning.”

That evening, you try to interview Gamzee and get nowhere. He has nothing to say about Lord English or any other subject, and answers your questions with a hummed medley of cop drama theme songs. Eventually, Karkat’s baleful glares drive you out of the room.

“How’s she supposed to help you if you can’t pull your nub out of your nook for five seconds, crotchstain?” he yells behind you. It takes an especial effort not to slam the door on your way out.

* * *

The next day, Dave replaces his brother at the witness stand. You don’t know him nearly as well as Dirk, but under his blasé attitude there’s more than enough of the trademark Strider “charm” to work with. Also, he’s not at all inclined to apply his physicality in an intimidating manner, which is an improvement over your model.

“Please explain to the court the nature of the person Dirk referred to as ‘Doomed Dave.’”

Words spill from his lips like he disowned them. “He’s a future me from another timeline who didn’t close his loop, and paid for it.”

“What does that mean?”

Dave props his chin on an elbow, losing patience with the proceedings in record time. “Are you really gonna make me try to explain time travel?”

“I’m afraid I am.”

“Okay, fine,” he says. “Take a cheeto. No, shut up. A fucking normal cheeto. Supposed to be a straight line, right? Like little segments of the alpha timeline, from point A to point B. But some of the cheetos come off the assembly line Y-shaped, and that extra prong sticking off the side is an alternate reality.”

The snickering evoked by his metaphor is a lamentable distraction. “Would a tree branch be more apt?”

“No, fuck you,” he says. “Branches are supposed to branch, that’s why they’re called fucking branches. The alpha timeline is not fucking supposed to branch, it’s a one-way express jet to the fucking future.”

You bite your lip to suppress a smile. “Alright, then… So what causes the split?”

“People, usually. It’s two paths diverged in a wood shit.” He tilts his head back to look at Terezi, whose chin is resting precariously on her knuckles, which, in turn, are hugging the corner of the podium. “Help me out here,” he says. “This is more your turf than mine.”

“The fork represents a decision point,” she says, with her customary fixed grin.

“Decision point. That’s good, did you come up with that just now?”

“Yes I did,” she answers proudly.

“Congrats.”

“Thanks!!”

“Okay, so what future Dave did is he traveled back a few hours, before the split, and he changed the outcome of the decision that created it. Like trains switching tracks. Voila, the prong breaks off, the cheeto is straight again and everybody’s happy.”

“Except for the other Dave,” Terezi inserts again.

“Yeah, except for him. He’s a paradox, see – now he’s marooned in a reality where his own personal recent past never actually happened, even though he’s the one who erased it. How can you exist if your own timeline is broken? Basically, he executed a highly strategic fuck-up.”

You’re afraid your incredulity is creeping around the edges, because he keeps explaining: “Me and Aradia, we’re a built-in kill switch for dead end timelines. The game won’t play without a Hero of Time, and that’s part of the reason why. It needs somebody on standby to rescue the alpha timeline when she derails.” He smiles humorlessly. “Bet you didn’t realize you were interrogating a real, live game mechanic. Wanna see my gears?” He pushes up his sleeves, putting his spectral pallor on display.

You giggle a little, feeling your cheeks heating up. “No, that’s all right. So, if I understand you correctly, the game’s physics are still in play, even here. Is this the alpha timeline?”

Dave shrugs. “How the hell should I know?”

“What does your gut tell you?” you prompt.

“I’ve closed all my loops, so as far as I know it is,” he says.

“What happens to someone marooned in the manner of your doomed clone?”

“He dies, sooner or later,” Dave says. “Mostly sooner.”

“Can anything be done to prevent this?”

“Delay, maybe. Prevent – no. That’s why he’s _doomed._ ” His voice drops as he draws out the word in a strident whisper. Terezi snickers, and he allows himself a smirk.

“So when he attacked Gamzee, he was – “

“Fulfilling a cosmological requirement in the manner of his choosing. Which is to say… in the manner of my choosing. I guess.”

“All right. So this clone of yourself from an alternate future came back in time to prevent that future from taking place. How did he do this?”

“The short of it is, nothing he tried worked, and mostly he just ended up getting more people killed. Finally when he ran out of ideas he sat down and talked to Rose, and she told him how it was going to play out, and then he went and did that. Even then it took a few tries to get it right. Every time he went back he had to go a few minutes earlier so he could start again clean. He was probably at least a day older than me, maybe more.”

“What did Rose tell him?”

“The same thing she told me,” Dave says. “That she’d already made the colossal fucking mistake of asking her magic cue ball how she would die.”

“What exactly did she See?”

His lenses seem to hold your gaze. “Dunno,” he says after a second.

“She must’ve seen the dress,” Kanaya says, almost to herself. “She described it to me precisely, down to the beading on the bodice.”

“She saw her transformation, which I understand she had been anticipating for some time,” Terezi says, shuffling her papers noisily. “If only with the relief of accepting the inevitable.”

“It’s pretty great,” Dave says. Everyone looks at him. “The relief,” he extends by way of explanation, rattling his pencil against the splintered boards. “Look, where are we going with this?”

“Could you have saved her? With or without the assistance of any number of your alternate selves?”

He cocks his head. “Nnnoooo,” he says slowly. “Not without sending us into a dead-end timeline. Not if she was telling the truth.”

“Have you ever known your sister to lie?”

His cheek twitches. “Does ‘creative omission’ count?”

“Could _anyone_ have prevented Rose’s death on New Year’s within the bounds of the alpha timeline?”

“No,” he answers, sounding more certain this time.

“Yet she faced death both knowingly and willingly.”

“I guess.”

“What about your doomed alternate? Did he not also deliberately put his life in danger, knowing that it would be cut short regardless?”

Dave gives a little jerk, then tries to shake it off as a head-toss. “If you’re trying to make a case for suicide,” he says with a hint of a tremor, “then I guess there’s some merit to that?”

“Both Doomed Dave and Rose attacked the defendant on their own initiative, who, though certainly dangerous, posed no immediate threat to either of them. Before their involvement, the altercation was nothing more than a domestic dispute between kismesisses. True or false?”

“False,” Dave says, now visibly shaken. “Gamzee had already committed murder before they arrived.”

“Are you telling me that they were avenging the mother grub’s death? Attacking her killer in a fit of passion?”

“No, they were – goddammit, they were trying to help Terezi!”

Leaning forward, you jab the table hard with your pointer finger. “Mr. Strider! Is it or is it not legally permissible to interfere in a rivals’ quarrel without the express permission of one or more parties belonging to the quadrant in question?”

“I don’t fucking know!” Dave yells, exasperated. “He was going to kill her!”

From her high seat, Terezi drums her fingers slowly, leaving a long pause between each dramatic _thonk._ “It is… not,” she says finally. “You have me quite convinced, Ms. Crocker. Well done.” Craning once more over the corner of the podium, she politely asks her bailiff if it’ll upset him to throw out the two counts of second degree murder.

“Whatever,” he mutters sullenly, slumping back in his chair.

Kanaya shrieks, _“What?”_ – and you’ve never heard such a chilling sound in your entire life.

“He is mine to deal with as I please. I do not presume to dictate how you manage your kismesis,” Terezi hisses viciously, stabbing the air with one lethal claw. “Do me the same favor.”

To your right, Karkat seizes Gamzee by the collar and dives backward off the bench, toppling the bigger troll over on top of him moments before the table explodes in a rain of splinters.

“Order!!” Terezi’s fist slams into the podium. Roxy is on her feet, but the chainsaw’s roar is already silenced.

As the sawdust settles, Kanaya pops open her lipstick with a barely disguised tremor. The veil flutters across her face like draped cobwebs as she draws the tube across her bottom lip in an unsteady stroke. Fascinated, you watch her press her lips together, hard.

“No further questions, Your Honor,” you murmur distractedly.

Dave clears his throat. “So, are we done then?”

“Absolutely not,” Terezi and Kanaya say as one. He withers, kneading his temple.

Kanaya, elbows clutched firmly at her sides, begins to stalk back and forth with her head bowed. Her hunched shoulders and long, bony legs give the impression of a heron hunting for frogs.

“I’m sure it took some convincing on your future self’s part to obtain your cooperation on the morning of the New Year,” Kanaya says.

“You could say that,” Dave answers tiredly.

“What did he say to persuade you not to interfere with his carefully-staged plan?”

“He told me about some of the stuff he’d seen.”

“Enlighten the court, if you would be so kind.”

“…Stuff,” Dave says evasively.

“Details, Mr. Strider! I must say, your brother was much more forthcoming,” she sniffs.

“Jesus fucking christ, woman. This is hard, okay?”

She seems to soften. “Take your time,” she murmurs.

With the pencil lodged between his first and second digits, Dave begins to sketch directly on the wood grain, his hand moving in choppy jerks as it traverses each ridge. He darkens the lines heavily as he gathers his words.

“If Jade had stayed, she’d have been in Rose’s room with the rest of you when it all started,” he says. “While you were arguing with Rose, she ‘ported herself outside.”

“Where she encountered the defendant in the act of butchering his first victim, so, naturally, she assaulted him.”

“No,” Dave says bitterly. “He’s Karkat’s best friend. She _yelled_ at him.”

“What happened next?”

“He went fucking bananas when he saw her, raving about the baby, and then he plunged his claws into her belly and just started taking her apart.”

Your sweat runs cold at Dave’s words – the imagery so close to Rose’s demise, save for the blood: red and green churning together to make an earthy brown instead of the Seer’s oily pitch. Kanaya, clearly sympathetic, offers a considerate moment of silence before resuming her soft questioning. “I assume your alternate did not witness this himself.”

Dave shakes his head. “Not that time, but Rose saw the whole thing. When she hit the lawn, the fear bubble was already up, and she just stood there helpless while he raked through the entrails. Fucking gruesome-ass shit.” With the shades on, it’s impossible to tell whether he’s looking at Kanaya or down at his drawing. Karkat, eyes fixed on the witness, rolls his shoulders and mutters something angrily to himself. Gamzee looks down at the top of his head without offering an answer.

Dave continues, “When he was done, he went inside the house to look for English.”

Even Kanaya seems to be caught off guard by this information. “So he really was trying to find Lord English?”

“What?” Dave barks a humorless laugh. “No. _Jake_. The maniac strangled him in his bed. Then he dragged his corpse around the house for a while. They could hear his head hitting the stairs.” You can almost hear it, too: _shhTHUMP, shhTHUMP, shhTHUMP_ , echoing through the halls. A chill crawls up your spine.

“Any idea what he was looking for?”

“Sure. Aradia. He was calling for Megido to come out and play, but he never caught her.”

“Interesting,” Kanaya says, deep in thought. “What about Terezi? Did she also escape unharmed?”

“The first time, yeah. She was still inside the house when he attacked Jade, and I guess she knew what was coming, so she lead the other Dave around back. They’d almost reached you and Rose when Aradia brought half of the house down. That was kind of the last straw,” Dave says. “That’s when he knew he had to go back.”

“What happened after that?”

Dave shrugs again. “Dunno. He didn’t give me the details. The gist of it was, the more shit he changed, the more people got caught in the crossfire.”

“Collateral damage,” Kanaya muses. “Tell me, in any of the alternate futures your clone experienced, were there any in which the mother grub survived?”

“None. He went after her first, every time.”

“Is it reasonable to assume that Jake, Aradia, Jade, and the mother grub were Mr. Makara’s true targets, and all others were bystanders?”

“That’s what it looks like from here,” Dave says.

“Is there any doubt in your mind that he would have killed them in this timeline, if given the opportunity?”

“Nope.”

“And you’re sure that none of them attacked first?”

“Positive,” he nods.

“This court is not prepared to prosecute people for crimes they didn’t actually commit, Ms. Maryam,” Terezi warns. “The events of other timelines are of little consequence here.”

“I am merely attempting to establish the defendant’s character and intent, which I’m sure Your Honor would agree appear to be quite _murderous_ despite the number of lives he failed to take thanks to Mr. Strider’s heroic efforts.”

Dave rolls his eyes so hard that it becomes a full-body gesture.

“Thank you,” Terezi says coolly. “Your point is duly noted.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Dave peers up at the judge’s podium. “T, my head is killing me.”

“Not to worry, we’re done for the day,” she says, offering him her arm. She marches him toward the house, tossing a quick “Dismissed!” hand flap over her shoulder as an afterthought.

As you stand, you notice that no one is leaving. Gamzee is looking at his moirail with an uncharacteristically troubled expression.

“What even are we having the courtblock showbiz for,” Gamzee says sheepishly. “I did the thing, didn’t I?”

Lacking any other avenue of expression, Karkat drops to his heels, grabs his own horns, and utters a little scream of rage into his elbows.

“I’m up in your motherfucking drift, best friend,” Gamzee says. “Can’t tell the daymares from the night ones most times myself neither.” His curls fall over his face as he smiles fondly down on his moirail. “I told her, I said, ‘Do the murder act on me, pretty little villain, here all are the sins I motherfucking did,’ but she ain’t got the thirsting up in her gullet no more.”

“Fear not, gentlemen,” Kanaya inserts, snapping her pocketbook shut with a businesslike sound. “My thirst remains as deep as ever, and I intend to slake it before this farce is over.”

Your arms prickle a moment before a violent shiver takes Gamzee, and he unfolds, seemingly growing several feet taller in as many seconds. “Motherfucking DROWN IN IT, DRINKER!”

Stooping menacingly, he stops and looks down with a grunt, as if unable to fathom why your hand would be planted in the center of his breastbone.

“Breathe,” you tell him quietly.

“Beware, Jane. He doesn’t look kindly on humans who take up a quadrant. In fact, I dare say you just made it to the top of his –“

“ _ZIP! IT!!!”_ You whip out your spoon, pointing her to her exit. Smirking, Kanaya retreats into the house with flawless grace.

Roxy gives an appreciative whistle from the rear. “Damn, girl!” Skipping around you, she takes Gamzee by the arm. “You didn’t even need me,” she says with a forced grin.

Karkat seizes the other. “Let’s get some chow,” he grumbles. “You’re fucking volatile when you’re hungry.”

Gamzee steps back, and your hand falls. He’s eying you with a strangely mixed expression. You stare determinedly up into his broad face until Roxy and Karkat together manage to pull him away. By the time you can breathe again, you’re alone.

“Fuck,” you tell the open air. You can’t match Karkat’s delivery yet, but you’re getting there.

You knock on his door after dinner, but one heated discussion and at least a few hurt feelings later, you finally admit that the scant ground you could glean from Karkat’s character testimony would be annihilated in cross-examination, where Gamzee’s reign of terror on the meteor would be exploited to full and devastating effect.

Pacing your room, you interview Roxy as she tries to help you plot a course amidst the brambles. Finally, exhausted, you doze, waking mere minutes before the trial is scheduled to resume. Without bothering to change out of yesterday’s clothes, you fly downstairs. The impeccably coiffed Kanaya sneers when she sees you; your hair must be a riot.

Then she looks over your shoulder, and her expression transforms. Karkat leans over the picnic table and whips off his shades. Following their lead, you turn, and find yourself staring at Terezi Pyrope.

The skinny legs poking out the bottom of her skintight skirt are ringed with black stripes a half-inch wide, one encircling her ankle, another pair bracketing her knee. As she hops down from her stool, you think you catch a glimpse of a fourth one wrapping around the widest part of her leg. The rings are linked by arrow-straight bars framing the length of her shin and thigh. More black lines disappear into her flats.

The overall effect is a wire-framed doll imprinted on the pearly grey canvas of her living skin.

“What the fuck?” mutters Karkat.

“When she was sitting still, I thought they were tights,” Kanaya says.

You shake your head, unable to believe your eyes. “No, they’re tattoos,” you answer. “Weird.” Karkat nods wordlessly.

“Great, you’re here,” Terezi says, yawning. She, too, must have had a sleepless night. “Let’s get this show on the road. The prosecution has called its next witness.”

“Who?” you ask, bewildered.

Kanaya pushes herself up from the table. “Me.”

“Is that allowed?” You and Terezi exchange concerned looks.

“Unfortunately, yes,” she says.

“But, but, we can’t start yet. Dave’s not here.”

“Nor will he be,” Terezi says. “He’s sleeping in.”

“Oh no,” you murmur sympathetically. “Another headache?”

“Something like that,” she shrugs, sauntering to the far end of the table. The movement of her legs is mesmerizing, like seeing a hinged marionette come to life. Kanaya takes her seat at the witness stand in a bit of a daze.

Terezi hops onto the table, crosses her legs, and lets her high heels dangle from her toes as she considers the prospect of interrogating this potentially very damaging witness. Although both she and Karkat can refuse to take the witness stand, it seems she has no means to censor Kanaya’s testimony. It leaves her in a very difficult position: if she fails to handle this objectively, Kanaya might be able leverage that to force her to step down from the judge’s seat.

She purses her lips as she weighs her opening moves. Admirably calm, Kanaya watches her struggle, opening her mouth, then changing her mind and shutting it again. This goes on for some time as Terezi’s expression grows more and more determined.

Finally, she shrugs and leans back. “We’re gonna do this straight,” she says. Kanaya allows herself a tight, wicked grin, as Karkat’s head thumps down onto the table.

“What is the nature of your relationship with the accused?” Terezi asks.

“Acquaintances only,” Kanaya says. “We met through mutual friends.”

“What was your initial impression of him?” says Terezi, stifling a yawn.

“At first, he seemed like a harmless, friendly troll. He had no interest in blood politics, and spoke in a disarmingly circumlocutory manner.” She smiles pleasantly, fangs front and center.

“Why did that impression change?”

“He began acting strangely, and Karkat alerted us to the fact that he had undergone a radical shift in personality and was threatening to kill us. A few hours later, I came upon him squaring off against two other murderers. Olive green blood was dripping from his clubs. He was wearing Nepeta Leijon’s hat and Equius Zahhak’s glasses, and he had three fresh scratches on his face matching Nepeta’s claws. My suspicions were confirmed when we found their bodies. Nepeta had been beaten to death; her moirail had been strangled. Gamzee killed them both.”

“I’ll spare you the task of proving these allegations,” Terezi says in a bored tone. “What seemed to be the inciting factor for his rampage?”

“Excellent question,” Kanaya says. “The prevailing theory is that Gamzee stopped taking sopor, which he’d been in the habit of consuming in large quantities. It has mind-altering properties when ingested.”

“By the by, whatever happened to the other two murderers you mentioned?”

“You killed one, and I the other, in retribution for their crimes,” the troll answers evenly.

“Did either of them receive the benefit of a fair trial?”

“No,” says Kanaya.

“Why was Gamzee spared, then?”

“His moirail shielded him from reprisal.”

“And yet, you have no compunction about depriving Karkat of his moirail now,” says Terezi in a hard voice.

“Our prior justifications have evaporated. Ultimately, he’s had little control over Gamzee’s behavior. Their moirallegiance has failed to fulfill its prescribed civil function, and as such, does not merit the protection of the law,” she pronounces with clinical disdain.

The clownish frown on Gamzee’s face at hearing these words is one of pure sorrow.

“Your opinion of the defendant’s pale quadrant is noted by the court,” Terezi answers dryly. “However, let’s return to the matter at hand. You’ve established the accused as mentally unstable with a history of violence. Do you have anything else to add?”

“Indeed I do,” says Kanaya.

“Alright, then, spill.”

Her eyes narrow. “Your Honor?”

“This stupid interrogation is a sham. I’m dispensing with the interview format. Just say what you’re going to say.”

“Of course,” she says, and stands gracefully, addressing the pair of you across the edge of the witness stand. “There are five living trolls. Unlike our human comrades,” she acknowledges you with a slight gesture, “we are unable to bear young. We are dependent on our mother for this task. She, in turn, was dependent on me. I failed her.” Her eyes glimmer with a greenish sheen as she bows her head.

“How many times do I have to tell you? It wasn’t your fault,” says Karkat. Terezi, for once, doesn’t hush him.

“Tell me, Terezi,” Kanaya says, voice thick, still staring down at the podium. “Vriska was your best friend. Why did you do it?”

Terezi’s face turns to stone before your eyes. “If I hadn’t, she would’ve gotten us all killed.”

“As I thought,” Kanaya says. “If only I had your gift, perhaps I could’ve stopped him…”

Lifting her tear-stained face, she speaks through clenched teeth. “I didn’t kill Ampora for murdering Feferi. Not even for trying to kill me. I did it because, in destroying the matriorb, he ended our race.” A razor-tipped finger stabs out at Gamzee like a beam of light. It’s hard to look directly at her. “Gamzee Makara did not commit murder,” she thunders. “He committed _genocide,_ and I demand _JUSTICE_!”

“Me too,” Terezi insists, shocked and saddened by the other’s outburst. “Kanaya, listen to me. Justice will be served. I swear it.”

Kanaya’s tone grows low and measured. “Then give me the word, and I will eradicate his stain from the world. There is no peace in my heart. I live only for this.” Blanched pale by her brilliance, she grips the sides of the wooden stand with ten sharply crooked fingers, ready to tear it asunder. You steal a glance at Roxy, whose hands are over her mouth. She looks like she’s about to cry.

“ _I believe_ ,” Terezi throws back. “This isn’t the end, Kanaya. Hold on. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“What is there left to uncover? There stands the betrayer. His victims sleep under the apple trees. Let it not be said that we suffered a serpent in our hive. After he’s dead, at least we can face our extinction without fear!”

“Fear!” Terezi scoffs. “Listen to yourself! Fear and distrust are our inheritance. We’ve always lived in terror of each other – peers who would turn against us, drones who would cull us, an empress who would enslave us, and elders who would like nothing more than to squish us into grub sauce. How have your dreams been, these past few sweeps? Have you _ever_ , one day in your entire life, slept peacefully without sopor? No? Guess what! Neither has he,” she says, gesturing angrily at the troll seated behind her. “Fear is the real enemy. Killing Gamzee will not save us, Kanaya. Only the truth can do that.”

Gamzee and Karkat, clutching at each other’s hands like anxious parents, are staring up at Terezi’s back with bated breath. The sun flashes across her ruby glasses as she contorts her spine to address you.

“I call Jane Crocker to the witness stand,” she says.

This is it. This is the moment you’ve been dreading. As you approach the witness stand, dream-like, you glance at Gamzee. He watches you with a look on his face like a whipped dog waiting for the next blow. He trusts you; he knows that you don’t cause the pain. But oh, it hurts to see him suffer.

Kanaya has already vacated the seat - you didn’t see her get up. The table goes Gamzee, then Terezi sitting almost on top of the chainsaw scar, then Karkat, then the widow, sun cooled once again to stone. Each face bears a map of their hopes and fears, and each is trained on you. You feel as though you’re the one on trial.

And then Roxy, seated at the base of her tree, gives you a thumbs up. You give her a shaky smile in return. _Focus on Terezi,_ you tell yourself. _You know what you need to say_.

“Jane, months ago you were tasked with investigating and monitoring the accused for signs of relapse to his former injurious ways. Please share with the court what you learned.”

Taking a deep breath, you begin. “Gamzee Makara is under the influence of an entity of whom he cannot speak.”

Letting the words flow from your mouth like a faucet, you tell them of the broken teeth, of the ragged nails and bloody tongue. Of the colossus shivering in the dark, asking for his moirail.

“One second he’s spouting what I can only imagine is highblood rhetoric regarding how trolls should conduct themselves – and, specifically, how you, his kismesis, fall short. The next, he’s espousing the end of all trolls, genocide and extinction. On the surface these attitudes appear contradictory. In one scenario, humans are the problem; in the other, they’re the solution.”

“Can you resolve this disparity?” Terezi asks. “Hypothetically?”

“I can try,” you tell her. “On the one hand, I do believe the lack of sopor has imparted some… instability. Gamzee’s being pulled in several different directions at once. Yes, I think the influence of his bloodline is largely responsible for his outrage regarding the ‘domestication’ of trolls. It’s hubris, pure and simple, wanting to hang on to the way things were. I’m not going to say he’s wrong, but it’s certainly going to need to be worked through.”

Karkat nods grimly and glares up at his moirail. “Listen,” he says. “Nobody cares what you shovel down your protein chute as long as it’s not wigglers. If you need to go back to sleeping during the daytime, I totally get that, ‘cause that shit can fuck with your head. But you have zero say over anybody else’s quadrants. End of story. Get the fuck over it.”

Gamzee looks contrite. “Didn’t mean it like that, brother. Ain’t got no thing against your girl.”

“Maybe you don’t,” you posit. “But someone does.” He looks at you again, the fear in his eyes replaced by something less decipherable. “I think some of the things you’ve been saying have a perfectly reasonable explanation. Like maybe being a teensy bit jealous of Dave? Just a little? And about not wanting children, I mean, that’s fair. It’s not for everybody. I know you worry about putting us in danger if you end up with a descendent who takes the hemospectrum a bit too seriously.”

Karkat squeezes his friend’s hand in pity as Terezi gives you a broad grin. “That’s legit. Go on, counselor.”

“That only leaves the mystery man who wants to wipe trolls out of existence, including Jade’s baby. And here, I think, we need to adjourn to continue this discussion in private.” When you interviewed Roxy, the pieces had finally come together. Nonetheless, it’d be impossible to convince Terezi and Kanaya without allowing them to see for themselves.

For a moment, no one moves. Then Roxy gives a start. “Oh, that’s me!”

“If you’d be so kind,” you answer demurely.

* * *

“Is everyone here?” Roxy asks.

You glance around. The house is dark and spookily quiet. A chill runs up your arms. “Where’s Karkat?”

“He’s with Gamzee. Do we need him?”

“Nah, he’ll just be in the way,” Terezi says. “Where to?”

“Follow Roxy,” you say. “I get so turned around in these dang bubbles.”

“Righty-o. Down we go.” The three of you follow her in a slightly nervous huddle. Reaching the stairwell, she swings wide of the banister and yanks on a little brass knob on the side of the staircase. The broom closet door swings open with a low groan, and where you expect to see a mop bucket tethered to the wall with cobwebs, a cave yawns instead.

You murmur, “Is this supposed to be Narnia, or Harry Potter?”

“Shh! Do you hear something?” Terezi says, stopping on the threshold. She raises her face into the black draft. As everyone cranes upwards to listen, Kanaya draws her lipstick. It takes a moment for you to zero in on what Terezi heard. Distantly, echoing down the stairwell, there is a noise: footsteps shuffling up the steps, each followed by a slow, menacing _bump, bump, bump_. It sounds like it could be up near the third floor. A door opens and slams shut, and then it goes quiet.

“Do you think – is that –“ Roxy asks fearfully.

“Gamzee?” you whisper. The cold reaches your spine, and a violent shiver momentarily seizes you. Angelic Roxy manifests a scarf, unwinds it, and hands it to you.

“Keep moving,” Terezi orders, advancing, sniffing the cool, earthy air warily. You close the door softly behind you, a decision you immediately regret.

“I don’t remember this tunnel being here,” you hiss, crowding behind her. “Do we have a tunnel?”

“Nope!!!”

“Why don’t you tell us where we’re going,” Kanaya suggests, throwing eerie shadows on the walls.

From the front of the column, Roxy raises her voice. “S’all you, honey bunch.”

You scurry forward, trying to stay in Kanaya’s circle of light. “Okay, so. Here’s my theory,” you say. “Gamzee’s haunted.”

“By Lord English?” Terezi muses. “I guess. I was really hoping we’d seen the last of that sour grape and his stupid ugly shelf cover.”

“Kind of loud, wasn’t it?” you say. “Garish, if you ask me. With the flashing and all.”

“Colors can be loud??” she practically yells. You can hear Roxy snorting with laughter up ahead.

“I mean, you’re right,” you amend. “We defeated him quite thoroughly, I’d say. This doesn’t really seem like his handiwork, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“English was like a natural disaster – he killed indiscriminately. However, Gamzee’s hit list was very specific. Vindictive. Dare I say, almost… petty?”

“We’re just about there,” Roxy says, ducking through a low opening. “Hang tight for a sec.” She disappears around a corner as you turn to face the trolls. Terezi’s expression is contemplative, while Kanaya’s is blank. As for you, well, now that you’re here, you’re actually pretty freaking stoked.

“It’s okay, she’s ready! You can come on in!” Roxy sings. Kanaya lifts the heavy curtain, revealing a stone cavern lit by a chandelier, which hovers over a round table draped with a lacy white cloth and place settings for five. You look up just in time to see a glorious apparition bustling into sight with a steaming tea kettle in hand.

“Callie!” She gives you a big, happy smile, only spoiled a little by slopping hot water on the floor. Pace quickening, you meet her at the table, making sure the kettle is safely set down before giving her a hug. “I haven’t seen you in so long!”

“Where have you been, lovey?” Callie exclaims. “And you brought me friends!” She eagerly approaches Terezi and Kanaya, loitering at the tunnel entrance like they might flee back the way they came. She spreads her arms in welcome. “Please, ladies, make yourselves at home. I hope you don’t mind my attire,” she adds. “They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and in my case, I can assure you that it’s all too true!”

Roxy, placing a silver tray loaded with sweets next to the teapot, offers introductions. “Do you know our friend Calliope?”

“We’ve met in passing,” Kanaya says, inclining her head briefly and retrieving her hand.

“Nice digs!!” Terezi says.

“You’re too kind, I’m sure! Can I offer you a spot of tea? I have quite the selection.”

Kanaya chooses a seat opposite of Roxy. “Earl Grey, please.”

You distribute the tea bags, black for you and Callie, and chai for Roxy, who’s already piled creamers next to her saucer in anticipation. Terezi insists on sniffing each tea bag individually, rifling through the herbal varieties with great relish. Callie – for whom a tea party with old friends must be a dream come true! – finishes pouring hot water into everyone’s cups and graciously offers biscuits around the table. Terezi takes a handful.

“So,” Callie says conversationally, “I trust your journey here was smooth.”

“Thanks to Roxy,” you reply. Terezi nods, cookie-stuffed cheeks bulging like a chipmunk’s.

“You must be here on pressing business, or I’d have gotten a tidge of forewarning, surely?”

“My fault,” Roxy says unapologetically, but Terezi says over her, “Indeed.” A few crumbs spray the table.

Callie’s eyes light up at the scent of adventure. You can tell this is more fun than she’s had in ages. “Right, then,” she says, leaning in. “Out with it!”

Terezi, clearing her throat, gulps down half of her barely-brewed tea and begins. “Gamzee Makara stands trial for high treason. To wit: he is accused of the murder of the mother grub. He did some other evil stuff too,” she says, waving her hand, “but that’s the crux of the matter, and the purview of the current tribunal.” She stares dramatically around the table, and more than one of you sits up straighter.

Kanaya sets down her teacup. “So. The courtblock drama _was_ a farce.”

“Not a farce!” Terezi says. “We’ve merely trimmed the fat. The truth will out, and we five will be its ushers.”

You meet their eyes. Even Roxy looks grim, and Kanaya, stiff with restraint, radiates ice.

Callie, on the other hand, is utterly befuddled. She gives you a worried look.

“Gamzee’s been acting strangely for months, ever since he gave up sopor,” you tell her. “I’ve come to believe that his actions are not entirely his own.”

“Hm,” Callie says, paint furrowing across her forehead.

Terezi leans forward on her elbows, sending everyone’s tea sloshing. “Are you familiar with the properties of sopor?” she asks.

“It muffles the nightmares that plague your minds at night,” Callie replies. “To go without must be ghastly, I can’t even imagine.”

Kanaya says, “For waking dreamers – which is all of us, now – there’s a small measure of protection.”

“Except now they’re worse than ever. Which is why we’ve been holed up in our respiteblocks instead of out having kickass tea parties,” Terezi adds.

It hits you. She’s right. Since Roxy left, you’ve barely left your bedroom at all, instead wiling away each night entertaining visiting memories – mostly Dad, but also some of your old school friends, and a few other familiar faces. Even now, the thought of opening your bedroom door and stepping into the hall fills you with apprehension. Are the nightmares spreading?

“Speak for yourself,” Kanaya shrugs, and sips her tea. “Someone’s got to keep an eye out for the clown.”

“Isn’t that Karkat’s job?” You feel very confused.

“Maybe if he actually tried to keep tabs on Gamzee instead of cowering in his block, he’d be a better moirail,” Kanaya says viciously.

Callie, visibly upset, spills tea all over the biscuits. “I thought she and Karkat were friends? I’ve been writing them as friends,” she whispers to you under her breath as you both attempt to triage the white tablecloth. Roxy and Terezi apparently have a different solution: to eat as many biscuits as they can before the shortbread gets soggy.

You shake your head. “Karkat isn’t on trial, Kanaya. Pull yourself together.” No rest for the auspistice – even when you’re asleep, apparently. But really, isn’t she asking for it?

She surges to her feet, livid. “Enough! I am through with your stalling! While you’re gossiping like wingbeasts and gorging yourself on desserts, I’ll be doing Terezi’s job for her,” she spits. “Carving pieces off of her kismesis until he fits through the oven door.” Whirling, she arms herself in one smooth motion as she strides towards the drafty passage you came through.

“Wait!” Roxy calls, shading her eyes against the drinker’s furious glare. “If you kill him now, it’ll only wake him up!”

The spindly troll throws knives over her shoulder. For a moment you actually think she might hurl the chainsaw at you, before you catch a glimpse of the fear and grief riddling her face, the same that lead you to demand a trial. Lowering her weapon, Kanaya snarls loudly in aggravation and returns to the table. Everyone sags into their teacups in relief as she sinks back into her seat.

“So tell me,” she says. “What in the mother’s name are we actually doing here.” Between the scratchy exhaustion in her voice and the greenish circles under her eyes, she looks very nearly hungover.

“I already told you,” you answer, feeling cranky and a little emotionally hungover yourself. “We’re in hot pursuit of the real perpetrator.”

Kanaya tosses down the rest of her tea and props her chin on her hand, long past patience. “Someone controlling Gamzee. Not Lord English. Who else still wants to kill us? Did we account for all the Jacks?”

Roxy glances up at the ceiling nervously. She hasn’t forgotten the Miles, their inescapability, et cetera. Luckily, you’re fairly certain that you did indeed account for all the Jacks, and you assure her of this.

“What about the Condesce?” you toss out, glibly. Terezi hisses, but Roxy gives a loud laugh, forgetting the Red Miles in an instant.

“Man, that bitch is TOAST,” she says. “Am I right?” She tries to entice high fives from the table, but Callie’s the only taker. Afterwards, the cherub cradles her hand wondrously, like she’ll never wash her gloves again.

Kanaya is not amused. “Who, then,” she says.

Soberly, Calliope answers, “Caliborn.”

Silence falls across the table. “Your brother?” Terezi asks, nervously. “But you said – “

“Not my brother.” She rises. “Come with me.” Silently, you follow her out of the room, Roxy hovering at your shoulder. Her eyes are fixed on your alien friend’s back. Callie stoops, overly protective of her horned headband, and you enter a vast chamber with a stone dais lit by nothing but a few white candles. The firelight plays off of the golden dress and burnished mask of a woman lying on a bed of her own magnificent wings.

“He’s not my brother,” she repeats. “He’s hers.”

You drift towards the gilded corpse in a trance. She’s enormous – as big as English was, but her bearing is more regal than brutish, hands clasped at her waist as though she were sleeping. Her nightgown, beaded with delicate silver thread, covers all but her hands, feet, wings, and face, and even the latter is hidden under a feminine, but otherwise featureless, death mask. You stroke her long, white feathers and finger the crescent moon sigil embroidered across her breast. Her talons are silvery grey and wholly alien, curved spikes as hard as stone erupting from the tips of each digit instead of the back, like humans and trolls. Not hands made for caressing – nor for holding a pen. You lift your head, looking at your dear friend Callie trying not to wring her hands, gloves perpetually grimy, even in death: a long graphite smudge marks the side of her writing hand. Could she have ever been happy as a fully grown cherub? Or were they always destined to be mutually exclusive?

“What would happen if I kissed her?” you ask.

“I haven’t the faintest,” she shrugs helplessly. “Are you thinking about giving it a go?”

Kanaya says, “Don’t be a fool, Jane.” But you’re looking at Roxy, and her eyes are glowing. She nods insistently.

“May I?”

“Please. I…” She colors greenish through her paint. “I’ve always wanted to meet her. I searched high and low, for eons, it seemed, going from bubble to bubble, deciphering unsolvable riddles and unlocking every door I could lay my hands on. But it was all for naught... you didn’t need my help after all. So I followed you here, resigning myself to an uneventful, interminable death.

“Then one day I heard a voice, singing. It was your young mother grub. She was still just an egg, but she knew who I was and what I was looking for. She told me about her home, a cozy cave where I could finally retire. So I picked a bubble that wasn’t too horrendously big and made the place that she described. It was so easy – everything just snapped into place. Then I took a look around, and there she was,” she says, gesturing sadly. “The me I’d been looking for all along, dead as a doornail and withered to a husk.”

You seat yourself next to her winged shoulder, pulling back the sheer veil shrouding her body and lifting the mask from her face. It’s heavier than it looks. The face underneath is dry and scaly, with gaunt cheekbones and extravagant eyelashes. You lean down, putting your lips to hers, and give it all you’ve got.

You know that sound a car makes when the engine’s turning over but won’t actually start? This was not that. This was turning the key and getting nothing at all, not even a clicking noise. Just silence.

You try again, just to be sure.

Calliope slumps. “I knew it was too good to be true.”

Terezi, who finished sniffing the body while you were busy trying to revive it, calls out from the darkness, “Hey, what is this place?”

You scoop up a candle and turn towards the sound of her voice, but Roxy catches your arm. “Let’s go back,” she says. “We still need to find Caliborn.”

“Do you know where he is?” Kanaya demands.

“No,” says Callie. “I’ve never even seen him.”

“Then how do you even know that he’s here?”

She smiles, watery-eyed. “The same way I always knew my brother was there, I guess, even before we learned how to write each other nasty little notes. I am, therefore he is. She is –“ and she points to the dragon-angel on the slab – “therefore, so is her brother. Probably a ghost like me.”

“No, seriously, guys,” Terezi shouts. “Come here!”

“No!” Roxy yelps, grabbing the back of your blouse. Wax spatters on the floor, and Kanaya barrels past you, fuming.

“What the hell are you yelling about?” she yells back. Then she sees the midnight blue slab at the edge of her ring of light, and halts. She looks over her shoulder at Roxy. “Is that – “

“Your blood?” you finish faintly, staring at the dark stain under Kanaya’s feet.

“Terezi, we’re leaving! With or without you!” Roxy bellows as she turns you around and marches you towards the door.

The troll darts away from your bestie’s Quest Bed. “Coming!” she says, passing the drinker and skidding in next to you. “Let’s go find that hideous clown. We can talk about this later.” Roxy, jaw set, nods.

Callie’s still standing alongside her twin. As everyone else passes through the door, you stop to watch her replacing the other cherub’s mask. “Are you coming, too?”

She shakes her head. “If this Caliborn still hates trolls so much that he’d actually find a way to assassinate the mother grub, can you imagine what he’d do to me?”

“Oh – of course,” you say, sadly. “I wasn’t thinking.”

She comes over and takes your hands. “Jane, I’ve missed you so much. Come see me again soon so we can figure out how to wake her up and get rid of my brother for good.”

“I missed you too, Callie. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She smiles, tears glimmering in her eyes. “Go!” she says. “Don’t let me keep you. You’ve got work to do!”

* * *

Walking up the stairs is the most terrifying thing you’ve ever done. Not even walking, really. Creeping. Heart racing, teeth clenched so hard they could crack, every muscle in your body screaming for you to run.

You can hear him. He walks slowly, step by awful step, scuffing his feet on the bare stone. His burden bumps over seams in the rock. It’s just like Dave said: Gamzee was after Jake and Aradia after all. Perhaps he hunted down Jake’s hapless dream reflection for the unforgivable crime of vaguely emulating the enemy of all life. Perhaps here, in the bubbles, he was able to turn the tables on the Handmaid’s daughter and drive her out. Now Jake’s lifeless corpse hangs from his hand like a ball and chain as he paces the corridors, waiting for Megido’s inevitable return, bleeding infectious panic.

Roxy’s eyes are black. “You’re already asleep,” she had said. “What else can I do?”

The four of you crouch near the top of the stairs: you and Terezi, a mere second from running; Kanaya, fighting tooth and nail to stay upright and angry; and Roxy, the only one fully in control of her body, but still terrified for obvious reasons. You can hear Terezi’s teeth clatter against one another as she struggles to pinpoint his path or current location. It sounds like he could be anywhere – hell, this is a dream, he could be _everywhere_ – throwing echoes down the hollow corridors, pacing the confines of his domain like a caged predator. What could he possibly be looking for?

“Alright, this is stupid. I’m going in,” Roxy whispers, and disappears. All she has to do is duck around the corner and come right back. You just need to know where he is. Dread fills your stomach. His footsteps grow closer, each bump louder than the last, and there’s no sign of Roxy.

Seconds tick by. You close your eyes, forcing yourself to breathe, in, out.

“He’s not –“ Roxy says.

Kanaya says, “Not what?”

Prying open your eyes, you find her face. She’s staring past you. With a thrill of terror, you realize that the sounds have stopped. And there’s someone at your shoulder….

Turn. First eyes, then head, if you can manage. Body might –

“Janey,” Gamzee says in a low rumble, as quiet as he goes. “Is he here?”

Even accordion-folded, half on the step below you and half on the one below that, he still tops you. His eyes are as wide and fearful as Roxy’s.

She squeaks, barely audible. It might have been “ _Run!”_ but no one moves.

Your tongue’s frozen in your mouth. He puts a paw on your shoulder. “Is that motherfucker finally already here?” he repeats.

You manage to shake your head through the tremors.

He stands, gazing up and down the stairs warily. “Stay back,” he says, before lumbering past you and around the corner. The filthy remains of a puppet dangle from his fist by one leg. The side of its face is scratched beyond all recognition, and the hat’s long gone, but you’d recognize Lil Cal anywhere.

Not Jake after all. Stupid, stupid!

“Go!” Terezi urges tightly.

Your legs don’t seem to know how to keep up with the rest of your body, and your hands are cramped from gripping the banister. You make it a floor and a half before you can muster the courage to stop. The others all stumble onto the landing and join you, staring upwards. There’s no sound but panting.

“Karkat must be hiding in his own block,” Terezi gasps. “Damn it!”

Kanaya flexes her hands, fury painted across her face. “He was so close I could’ve touched him. Next time I’ll be ready. DO YOU HEAR ME, MAKARA?” she shouts.

“Kanaya! Hush! Obviously he’s looking for Caliborn, too.”

“’He has to come back so we can get free,’” Terezi quotes, shaking her head. “How do I _still_ keep underestimating the Bard’s rage?”

Roxy says, “You saw what he was carrying, right?”

Great question. Didn’t Dirk say he lost Lil Cal before he even got into the game?

Taking deep breaths, you pull yourself together. Gamzee’s voodoo still permeates the walls of this place, but now that you know the lay of the land, it’s easier to work through it. Even though you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to set foot on the third floor again. Not in your dreams, anyway.

“I think we know what we have to do. At least it’ll buy us some time until we can figure out how to resurrect Calliope. Roxy?”

“Yeah?”

“Please wake us up,” you say.

Less than ten minutes later, you’re standing guard by the window, looking down on Gamzee and his moirail slumped over the picnic table on the front lawn. They’re leaning against each other, motionless.

“The hallway’s clear,” Kanaya says from the door. She has her chainsaw out for like the eighth time today.

“This place is a freaking wreck,” Roxy complains as she opens the closet. “Aaahhh!” An avalanche of bike horns and other juggalo memorabilia cascades over her, but she wades through it like water and escapes unharmed. “No puppet here,” she announces.

Terezi, rooting under the bed, kicks away empty pie tins and a bicycle seat with her black-striped, shoeless feet. She wriggles out from under it backwards and sits up, spider webs clinging to her hair.

“Found it,” she says with a huge grin. She holds the puppet out to Kanaya. “Now this, you can throw in the furnace.”

* * *

Dirk probably would’ve objected to the cursory manner in which his guardian was disposed of. Or perhaps not; he said goodbye to Lil Cal ages ago. Nonetheless, none of you wanted to hang on to it long enough to ask.

Covered head to toe with dust, Terezi combs out her hair with her fingers, hissing when she touches the open wounds that were once her horns. She resumes her seat behind the podium and gives Roxy a nod.

As the pressure of the void eases up, Karkat straightens first, holding his head. His eyes narrow on Terezi.

“What the hell happened to you?!” he exclaims.

“Mr. Vantas,” she says. “Please alert Mr. Makara that it’s time for closing statements.”

“Did you finish the fucking trial without us?” he demands. He shakes Gamzee frantically. “Wake UP, you apathetic piece of shit. If you don’t care what happens to you then you deserve what’s coming, but I wish you would think for two seconds about what it’s gonna do to me.”

“Relax, Karkat,” Terezi says. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

Kanaya’s face darkens precipitously. “No?” she says, folding her arms across her chest. “Maybe something should. The closing statements can wait – I want to call Karkat Vantas to the witness stand.”

Karkat watches her rise, his mouth hanging open. She looks down at him with barely concealed disdain as tendrils of smoke curl out of the oven behind her. “I said I wasn’t done with you,” she says softly.

“I’m not testifying against Gamzee,” he sputters. “You can’t make me.”

“Mr. Vantas, where were you the morning of the solstice?”

“That’s – I was –“

“ _Where were you when our mother was dying at the hands of your best friend?_ ” she menaces.

Karkat’s gone nearly white. “Kan –“

“Rose died for you and your travesty of a moirallegiance,” she says. “She died because _you_ couldn’t pacify him.” Her voice is a rusty coffin hinge. “And even now, you can’t bring yourself to admit that you have no fucking clue what he’s capable of. You’re terrified of him.”

Wilting, Gamzee bows his head. “No,” he mumbles.

“You’re mad,” says Karkat.

“We already told you that Karkat is not on trial, counselor,” Terezi warns.

“How many of us will you sacrifice to your pale quadrant?”

“There is _no guilty motherfucker but me_ ,” Gamzee groans.

“No!” barks Karkat, wild eyes darting from his accuser to his moirail. “Shut up!” he tells Gamzee through clenched teeth.

“Where were you when she was screaming for help? Everyone else rushed to her side. _Where were you?_ ”

“I was coming! I…” He stumbles over the words. “I was running down the stairs, and then I must have… tripped, or….”

“How convenient,” she snarls, dripping acid.

Karkat’s finally lost for words. He looks at her as though she’s the one sprouting tentacles and speaking in tongues.

Rolling her eyes, Terezi cuts them off with a raised hand. “Ms. Maryam, I can vouch for the fact that Mr. Vantas is indeed doing everything in his power to control his moirail. The fact of the matter is that Mr. Makara poses an extraordinary challenge. No one could handle him any better.”

“He should’ve been there,” Kanaya says, forcefully. “If it’d been him instead of you –“

“Then he’d just have been another casualty,” Dave says, sauntering up alongside the judge’s podium with his hands in his pockets. He tilts his head back to peer up at Terezi. “I mean, I’m guessing. But you never let him get that far, did you? Fifty different timelines, and my alt never once laid eyes on Karkat. What’d you do, brain him with the glue gun?”

“No,” says Terezi, “I used this.” She fishes out a stapler and drops it into his hands.

Dave hefts it and whistles. “Whoa,” he says. “This thing is lethal.” He underhands it to Kanaya, who snatches it out of the air, eyeballing the dried blood encrusting one end. She closes her fist around it as she leans back against the table, and you can just make out the manufacturer’s name between her fingers: DA—Y DE—OT.

Well, Dad sure liked his sturdy office supplies.

“So you see, Ms. Maryam, there’s no need to be uncivil to our dear friend Karkat. He couldn’t very well have thrown himself in front of a rampaging highblood with a dent in his thick skull, could he?” Karkat, still breathing heavily, unconsciously fingers the goose egg on his left temple. The gash is already closed; trolls regenerate quickly.

Kanaya’s mouth twists bitterly. “Shame on you,” she tells Terezi and Dave. “Who are you to decide whose life is worth saving?”

They share a quiet look before Dave turns away, his face blank. Terezi answers. “We did everything we could, but Rose’s fate was never in anyone’s hands but her own. Accept it.”

Kanaya makes a thick sound in her throat. She closes her eyes as jade-green tears flood her cheeks. The silence that follows is heartbreaking.

“Screw closing statements. We’ll finish up tomorrow morning,” Terezi says, knocking on her podium one last time. “Court adjourned.”

* * *

Nearly everyone comes down to hear Gamzee’s sentence. You and John stand at the back, carrying the twins, while Roxy takes up her position under the twisted tree trunk with a militant frown on her face. The only one who doesn’t show is Kanaya.

Terezi arrives at precisely eight to pass down her decision. It’s anticlimactic, delivered by Dave in a bored tone: Murder in the first degree, not guilty, temporary insanity. Assault and battery, not guilty, self-defense. Psychic assault, guilty on all counts. Sentence: Life under house arrest with the possibility of parole and a temporary restraining order against contact with any of the trolls. Essentially, at least for a little while, he’ll be your problem – yours and Roxy’s.

The defendant raises his head and stares at his kismesis as Dave drones on; he barely seems to be listening as he studies her. The tattoos have spread all the way up to her hairline overnight. She’s wearing a clingy black top with a neck that swoops low to frame two bars running horizontally across her chest above her petite breasts. The upper one arcs up to intersect her collar bones before dipping back down to continue into her sleeve, presumably wrapping around her upper arm and across her back to join up with itself on the other side.

Gamzee nods to himself.

Karkat is definitely paying attention. Halfway through the announcement, he collapses against John’s side with a faint moan. Your brother tucks him under his arm and gives his shoulder a squeeze.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he tells the troll. “I believe.”

You do, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for Karkat and Gamzee: ["Brother" - Murder By Death](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=983uyf0BQqI)
> 
> Next chapter is my baby. It's a very long Karkat chapter. I hope you like feeeelings! See you in two weeks!


	18. Karkat: Light a fire.

_When I Contemplate The Work That Thou Hast Done Here_  
_My Throatlatch Glands Burgeon With Delight_  
_Though My Brood Is Beset By Hardships Untold_  
_My Greatest Lamentation Is This_  
_That Those Who Burn Brightest_  
_Gutter Out First_

Shit. You didn’t mean to make her cry.

_Hunker Down O My Darling_  
_Rush Not Headlong Into Oblivion_  
_Thy Greatest Works Are Yet Undone_

* * *

The world ended, but you’re still here.

A few days after the sentencing, you began to realize that the coughing stutter your heart was making in your chest – like a lawnring trimmer that’s almost out of gas – meant that you’d never see Jade again. And because her heliotropic smile is the only thing that gets you out of your block when you feel like you’re drowning in your own blood, the prospect of holding your shit together without _her_ to hold your shit together for is not something you’re interested in doing.

It was good that someone could get you going, because there’s still so much you have to do. Your moirail’s got his claws on the ignition, but you’re not going anywhere without your fuel, and that fuel is Jade Harley’s bottomless pit of sunshine. She’s the one person on this fucking planet who actually helps.

Now she’s gone, thanks to her actual boyfriend, who you’re beginning to suspect has been your nemesis all along… which would be awesome if he were a troll, but he’s only human, and when he gets under your skin it’s worse than you could possibly imagine because, sorry, he just doesn’t hate you that way. It was so much simpler when he didn’t know how quadrants worked – you could write off the flirting as inadvertent human stupidity. Considering how excruciatingly dumb he can be about things he actively refuses to care about, his newfound insight is bewildering.

This pointless drama has come at the worst possible time; you really can’t afford to be fucking around. You’ve been adding two or three things to your to-do list for every one you cross off. The barn needs a complete overhaul, it’s in fucking shambles, and you should really move the furnace away from the blighted soil where some putrid, fleshy flora sprouted after Rose melted into the ground. If you can get that done, you would like to finally build Jade her greenhouse. When fall comes around, there’s the harvest, and readying the big house for winter….

Not that you’ll get that far. No, your actual priorities right now are twofold: first, find somebody willing to take over your moirail; and second, appoint someone competent enough to take care of everyone else. That’s it, those two things.

Unfortunately, there aren’t many qualified applicants. Without Jade around to shoulder the burden of leadership (which would’ve been admittedly hilarious, but probably very effective once people got used to it) – something that you’d have been fucking thrilled to leave to Rose, who hardly needed you in the first place – you’re left with the unlikely prospect of John Egbert somehow stumbling into his man pants and managing to put them on with the zipper in front.

You had Aradia in mind for Gamzee, which would have been a moirallegiance of necessity at best. Sadly, you hadn’t quite worked up the globes to mention it before she split. That only leaves Kanaya, who is a fucking derelict right now, and also hates Gamzee with the fire of a thousand suns. In other words, you’d have a better chance of setting him up with the Condesce, may she be rolled in salt and strung out in the light seasons to cure.

Would a human be able to handle him? Jane probably pities him enough, but she’s encumbered with a larval freeloader right now, not to mention that she sorta-kinda already fell into a quadrant with him. John’s girl is in the same boat – less literally; the twins aren’t like grubs at all, if anything, they look like fat, malproportioned midgets – though at least she can shrug off Gamzee’s highblood witchcraft.

Speaking of which, how about…

“Fuck no,” Dirk says when he finishes pretending to entertain the suggestion that maybe, just maybe, he could try to get to know your moirail better. “I don’t know why you suddenly feel the need to play matchmaker for your jacked up pale pal, but in case you didn’t get the memo, ‘humans don’t belong in quadrants.’”

“I think it’s been convincingly argued that he was out of his pan when he said that.”

“Look at that, another good reason not to strike up a relationship with a mass murdering B-movie villain. And here’s a third: my quadrants are spoken for at the moment.”

You narrow your eyes at the technically-younger-but-no-less-infuriating Strider. “Humans don’t have quadrants, fuckass.”

Dirk blinks at that, but his tone remains businesslike. “Good. Glad we had this talk.”

He pauses mid-saunter when he gets to the door. “Send him up to the roof if he wants to spar,” he says, as an afterthought. “Opportunities for a good strife are growing thin.”

“Will do, I fucking guess,” you mutter, wheels turning. What the hell does he mean, his quadrants are full? Surely you would have heard about it if he was seeing anybody – nothing stays a secret for long around here. He can’t really think he has a chance with Egbert, can he?

Shit. A little late, your math catches up to your mouth and you realize that he must think Gamzee sent you to solicit him for a flushed fling. Okay, you royally fucked up. But what were you supposed to do? Tell him the truth? Yeah, no.

It’ll have to be Kanaya, somehow. She needs a moirallegiance now more than ever, to make sure she gets fed, if nothing else. As long as it doesn’t involve talking about Rose again… there are some things you never needed to know about quadrant romance.

Well, you still have some time left. Maybe she’ll be in a better place next week.

So with this huge helping of hoofbeast excrement on your nutrition plateau, it shouldn’t be a surprise that you’re looking for anything you can lay paws on to keep your engine running. Which is why, after another long day of whipping your clan into shape – feeling thirsty, sore, and most of all, lonely – you sit down to rummage through Dave’s POS computer.

Sifting through his esoteric filing system is an exercise in self-lobotomy. You finally stumble on a folder full of vocal samples titled “hells of ill,” a designator as painfully insipid as it is uninformative. It contains thousands of numbered files which you deduce, with a numbing degree of panwracking, are titled by their timestamp. Their fucking _timestamp_. Even if the computer could actually clock time accurately on this planet, who the hell does that?

An hour later, all you’ve gained is a newfound appreciation for the many ways in which the human squawk blister can macerate the simplest of phrases, and a growing sense of frustration. You’re about to just start button-mashing when Dave’s voice pipes up unprompted.

“What’re you looking for?” he asks, in the same rapid-fire deadpan you’ve been listening to for what seems like twelve lifetimes since you sat down in his chair. You almost tune him out again before you realize he’s actually physically here, standing over your shoulder, reaching for the mouse.

“What do you think, you thick-skulled bulgewhiffer?” If he has any cobwebs left in the hollow block he calls a think pan, it shouldn’t be too hard to figure out. He’s got hundreds of hours of recordings of Jade’s voice on this thing. She told you so.

“Maybe I can help,” he says, cocking his head to watch the monitor out of the corner of his eye like a wingbeast stalking a kernel of popcorn. He plows through strata of gibberish to land in a folder that looks exactly the same as the one you had before. Somehow divining its contents, he homes in on a file three-quarters of the way down the list and double-clicks.

Jade’s voice floods through your headphones like a wave of sopor.

It’s just nonsense, but it’s strangely soothing nonsense. She recites a lilting rhyme that trips and tumbles over made-up words, tugging you into the fray along with it, and when the clip ends your appetite is only piqued. You quickly tab down to the next one and hit play before Dave can cut in.

The second clip is powerful prose, a narrative recited by a girl on the verge of being culled. She talks about holding on to the last inch of her integrity even as she faces her inevitable demise. As you close your bulbs, you imagine that she’s speaking for your ears, telling you how to deal. The feeling only intensifies as the speech concludes with biscuit-rending sentiment: “With all my heart, I love you.”

Elatedly and with no fucks left to give, you move the cursor back to hear her say it again just as Dave jacks in. His hands flit familiarly over the equipment as he adjusts the levels more by instinct than any kind of conscious thought process. As she chimes out Valerie’s declaration a second time, he nods, understanding. “Oh yeah, dog, V for Vendetta, that’s some heavy shit.”

While the speech winds down, Dave makes another incursion into the jungle of his hard drive. He hits play and leans back to watch your reaction. This one is longer, but the first minute is nothing but muffled, heavy breathing.

The seconds stretch by. With the ugly feeling that you’re being trolled, you growl up at Dave, “What in the name of the imperial leviathan’s frothing maw is this?”

“Keep listening. It gets better,” he says coolly.

Then you hear it – the sound of a zipper being pulled, fighting with clothes, lips pulled apart, a high-pitched moan, and your own voice, stifled for secrecy – “How is that? Is that okay?”

You tear off the headphones and throw them at the screen. Before you can turn your wrath on his wretched corpse, he’s five feet away with his hands in his pockets and you’re left lunging at thin air.

“I don’t blame you for wanting to scope out your competition,” you tell him, teeth bared.

“What competition?” he throws back. “Do you really think this was ever supposed to be a dick-measuring contest? Get over yourself. You’re never gonna come close to being good enough for her.”

“You sure about that? She’s the one who came on to me, shitstank. This whole thing was her idea.”

He scoffs, sounding more amused than anything else. “Damn straight she came on to you. She was using you, bro. And as for who’s good enough for her, well, she’s entitled to her opinion or whatever, but I can tell you up front that neither one of us actually qualifies. So quit imagining that there’s some big war going on between us, because that’s a fucking fallacy.”

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. “Is that it? Is that all you have to say to me?” You were expecting something bigger and meaner, some kind of showdown. It’s been a year coming. Even knowing you were probably going to get your ass handed to you, you were frankly looking forward to it – getting the chance to prove your feelings for her. Fuck, you had a huge speech laid out and everything.

“What do you want me to say? You want me to take you to the cleaners for being a bottom? Or for taking your precious time to learn how to make her come? Or for needing the concept of foreplay spelled out for you? Fine, let’s say I did that. Next.”

You gape at him, lost for words. As you scramble to regroup, you hate yourself a little more, because all the times you lay next to her admiring her leagues of glossy hair and the yellow-green shine of her eyes in the dark as she expounded on her favorite topic – i.e. the massive douche in front of you – you never picked up on anything you could use against him.

His words leave you with a completely irrational sense of betrayal. Jade obviously didn’t see the need to keep anything back. You knew you would never be first in her heart; you didn’t _want_ to be. The reminder that her loyalty still lies with him shouldn’t – and doesn’t, really – come as a surprise.

What is a surprise is that it hurts more that he has all these bullets with your name on them and legitimately doesn’t care enough to pull the trigger. He should be destroying you, but he can’t be bothered even to raise his fucking voice, much less start a fight. There’s something horribly wrong with this picture.

“You’re just going to let it go?” you venture. “I thought you hated me.”

“You damn well know you piss me off, that’s a given,” he says. “You’ve nearly gotten her killed twice now. You’re lucky she loves you, asshole, or else I’d murder you in a heartbeat if it would save her one more minute of suffering.”

“So you _would_ hate me if it was okay with her, is that what you’re saying?”

He gives you a silent, blank-lensed stare before responding. “Holy shit, T nailed it. You do have a crush on me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you spit before he can get any further, but he doesn’t miss a beat.

“No, it’s true. You thought if you played your cards right you’d get a kismesis out of this shitshow. Two for one, it doesn’t get any better than that, right? Should I have been checking my cubby for black valentines this whole time? You and your fucking obsession with cramming people into boxes. Somebody please get this Romeo a labelmaker before he shits himself.”

He barely gives you an opening to argue. “Let’s talk about hate,” he says, coming back over to lean on the desk. “Here’s the deal. Your best bro almost managed to floss with Jade’s intestines and you’re totally cool with that. Her uterus practically fell out, but she still wants to try for a baby, and for some unfathomable reason you’re cool with that too. Either one of those should be enough, right? The way you look at her should be enough. Your _face_ should be enough. But here we are,” he shrugs. “Wanna know why?”

Balling your fists only draws your attention to the fact that your nails are filed down to impotent stubs, not the honed talons the situation calls for. You realize, with a dawning sense of horror, that you do want him to hate you. You _need_ him to. Very, very badly.

The very fact of his existence makes a noise in your head, a sound that gets under your fingernails, a ringing resonance that penetrates your cranium like an ice pick, the harbinger of the freight train at the end of your tunnel – coming at you full throttle with no headlight, only twinned tinted lenses and the screaming frisson of rails.

It would be so fucking easy to hate him. Like falling down the stairs.

There’s always only been one little thing holding you back. How could you ever face Jade again if you traded her love for enmity? Her love is more than law, it’s reality. It’s gravity. It’s your prime motherfucking mover, you piece of shit!! Who are you to hate anyone that she loves?

“Why?” you ask, dry-mouthed. _How come I’m always the one with eyes bigger than my stomach, while you get to be untouchable?_

“Simple. You gave her what she wanted,” he answers. “You’re an instrument, Karkat, you’re a fucking hex key, and you’re only good for one thing. Now that she has what she wants, how much longer do you think it’s gonna last? You think she’s going to put up with your moany ass any longer than she has to?”

No. You were never dumb enough to believe that she intended this to be a long-term arrangement. If nothing else, your mortality ensured that much. But was it too much to hope that you wouldn’t have to spend your last days alone?

It’s not fucking difficult to hate someone; you just let it happen. The hard part is getting them to hate you back. It’s exactly the same as every other goddamned quadrant. If he hated you, you’d already have the script memorized front to back: platonic or not, check. Reciprocated or not, double check. Hell, you could make him squirm and love every fucking second. Apathy? Apathy is anathema to every fiber of your being. You don’t have time for apathy, and you definitely don’t have another minute of your life to waste on Dave Strider. If only your mouth would cooperate.

“She’s put up with me this long,” you tell him, anger rallying for one final jab. “Would it kill you to admit that maybe it’s because I gave her something you couldn’t?”

“I bet you think that’s supposed to hit below the belt. Nice try, dickhead, but this is not gonna be your emo ever after. This is your fucking tragedy,” he says. His shades catch the computer glare with a razor sharp glint. “How could anyone hate a tool?”

* * *

For days and days, nothing else happens. Everybody gets up early and stays up late and gets stuff done and nobody needs to be yelled at, and the oppressive glare of the sun reminds you of home. There’s one whole morning that goes by where you don’t wish Rose was still alive every five minutes.

It’s almost enough to convince you that they’ll get along fine without you after all.

Gamzee happily follows Roxy everywhere she goes, just as instructed, which means he’s spending an awful lot of time with the ancestor-humans, John, and the wigglers. Roxy likes having a pet troll, and your moirail has apparently taken up Dirk’s offer: yesterday the two of them were brawling in the yard, stirring up dust while the girls served as their cheerleaders-slash-seconds. Basically, he’s having way more fun under house arrest then he ever did before the incident, and as far as you can tell, you’re the only one being punished.

Damn it, just because you’re conspiring to pass him on doesn’t mean you’re ready to let go just yet.

Terezi’s ruling was made for your safety. You know this; you just don’t give a flying fuck. Who knows? Maybe she misses her kismesis as much as you miss your moirail. Maybe, if you ask nicely, she’ll let you have whatever the moirallegiance version of a conjugal visit is called.

But she’s not in her room, and she’s not in the third floor common room, and she’s not outside goading the guys to gang up on her kismesis. She’s not in the nursery playing with the twins and trading gossip with their mother while Roxy takes a break from trollsitting. Maybe she’s holed up with Kanaya, but since Kanaya’s not answering her door and Terezi might just legitimately not want to be found right now, you pretty much decide to stop looking.

Just for the hell of it, though, you cut through the rec block on the way to the stairs, and oh, look, there she is.

She’s made herself a pile – a real-life plush pile, the like of which you haven’t seen since you were living on the meteor – consisting of a representative sample of essentially every stuffed animal in the house. The roarfiend’s share are her own scalemates and Jade’s neon Manbro Dudes, or whatever those things are called, with a prominent cache of Squiddles huddling together in a fluffy knob. She’s got wizards in there too, and pillows, and even a couple of smuppets that look like they’ve been used as doorstops for the last few sweeps (they make great doorstops, all you have to do is wedge the dong part under the door.)

Ladled into the depression in the top, like gravy on a fluffy plateful of mashed potatoes, is Dave motherfucking Strider with your ex curled up on his chest like a cat. Never mind that he has no idea how to use a pile – his head is hanging off one side and his legs are dangling off the other. Never mind that Terezi, with her hornless head tucked up under his chin, is snoring like a bandsaw. Never mind that she actually looks happy for once, not just nefarious, and never mind the mysterious stripes ringing her limbs that maybe aren’t such a mystery after all.

The growl cresting in your throat is as much a surprise to you as it is to them, because honestly you didn’t think you cared that much about what this shitstain does in his free time. You meant to write him off for good when he made it clear that you aren’t fit to lick the mud off Jade’s work boots, much less _date_ her – but here you are, ready to waste your spite on the asswipe who won’t return the favor, wasting your oh-so-finite heartbeats on the wonderboy with all the time in the world. Fuck your life.

Dave, waking instantly, levers his head up just enough to get a bead on you, then lets it drop again. “T,” he says, yawning, “Terezi, wake up. It’s time to get up, girl, go.” He massages her shoulder until she awakens with a start, sitting bolt upright and stretching her tattooed arms to the ceiling, flashing her teeth at you in a mocking leer as she dons her glossy shades.

“I think Karkat has something he wants to say to us!” she says, grinning down at Dave blearily.

As your growl edges upwards to a roar, she kneads his wrinkled shirt, urging him to sit up. He remains stubbornly slung across the mound of toys. Her smile gets nervous around the edges, but you don’t know why. You’re not even looking at her.

“I’m going to leave you two to your talk,” she decides. Dave makes a miserable noise somewhere between an _oof_ and a groan as she hops off the pile, relieving him of her weight. She brushes past you, too close, cackling softly to herself, and swings the door closed behind her with a bang.

With Terezi safely out of the way, you approach the pile, brandishing your sickle.

“How dare you,” you snarl.

Dave says nothing, but he’s probably rolling his eyes, the smug nookmunching bed wetter.

“Congratulations, you cringing degenerate, you’re the vilest worm that ever had the audacity to squirm onto dry land. A landfill wouldn’t even touch your rancid carcass, you shitpicker! How _dare_ you!”

“Hey everybody, guess what? Shouty Karkat finally came home,” he croaks. Cocking his head demonstratively, he adds, “Hear that, Karkat? They don’t care. No one wanted to hear that shit back then and no one wants to hear it now.” Shifting on the pile, he tries to sit up, but gets caught on the curve of your steel and falls back with a groan.

“How long have you been seeing Terezi?”

“A hell of a lot longer than she’s been seeing me,” he says, laughter cutting off abruptly for a serious aside: “Blind joke, my bad.”

“I can’t _believe_ this! This whole time I was thinking you had the forbearance of a fucking saint, but you were sneaking around behind Jade’s back all along!” You smack your forehead in sarcastic amazement as everything you thought you knew about this scumbag shifts under your feet. “No wonder you don’t give a damn about me! It all makes sense!”

“Hold up,” Dave says, sounding mildly alarmed. “Who says I’m cheating on Jade?” He shoves at your wrist, sitting the rest of the way up and rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s obvious, you blithering imbecile. God, how did I not see this coming? You have almost as much history with Terezi as I do. She would have turned to you as soon as we broke up.”

Dave tilts his head, eying you like a complicated puzzle. “What on earth do you think is going on between me and her?”

“You’re sleeping with her. Obviously.” You snap your teeth shut with a _click_ , daring him to deny it.

“Well, okay. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t, seeing as that was _literally_ what we were doing when you walked into the room.” He grimaces painfully. “Christ, my back hurts. How can you stand lying on all this crap, it’s hella uncomfortable.”

“You sent Jade away so she wouldn’t find out, you heinous two-timing shit-wallowing squealer!!!!”

Dave’s jaw tenses. “That wasn’t me, dammit! That was my dickwad time clone! You think I _wanted_ her to leave me here? With _you?_ ” The way he says it, like your presence alone is enough to ruin his week, pushes buttons you didn’t even know you had.

“ _You’re the same fucking person!_ ”

“Nuh-uh. When my alts step out of line they lose Dave privileges.”

“Are you trying to tell me that _you_ –“ sickle flicked scornfully in his direction “– never break the rules?”

“Yeah. I am. Like it or not, that’s what defines me. I’m the straight man.”  He winces, digging at a knot in his shoulder. “Everyone else gets to fly around showing off their uber powerups, and all I get is a parking spot reserved for paradox space’s personal bitch so I can chase loops like a hamster in a fucking wheel.”

_I hear that_ , you think grudgingly. _Every time I think I’ve found a way out, I end up worse off than I started. Now Jade is gone, Rose is dead, my moirail is crazy, and I’m stuck in a dead-end rivalry with a jackass who’s determined to torment me until his girlfriend comes home. Kissing Jade that night is the only thing I’ve ever done that wasn’t a massive fucking mistake._

Tossing his head, he once again fails to get the hair out of his face. The gesture provokes an intense desire to gouge out your own ganderbulbs, just like every other time he does it. “Look, dude, I would have jumped on my bro’s demon horse and brought Jade back myself if your shithead juggalo moirail didn’t have a hit out on her, so don’t pretend like you’re more torn up about her leaving than me.”

Leaning forward on your toes to the point of defying gravity, you laugh dismissively, spinning your blade between restive digits, relishing the way it whirrs as it cuts the air. “Jade would’ve squished Gamzee into grub sauce if she knew how dangerous he was. Every one of us ate up your story about needing to protect her, but I can’t fathom why.” Your skin feels tight across your face, eyes wide, trained, drinking in the profile of your quarry as you adjust your grip on the sickle. His thin, lanky frame with the pulse threading just below his fragile skin reads as one enormous weak spot.

Your expression grows nasty. Sniffnode apertures flaring, you move in for the mortal blow – verbal, in this case, but it’ll hit harder than any other punch you could throw. “You signed your sister’s death sentence when you sent Jade away, do you realize that? How do you sleep at night knowing that Rose might be alive if it wasn’t for you? What’s the point of being the Hero of Time if you’re going to follow the book down to the fucking letter instead of picking up a pen!”

Swaying slightly, Dave lifts his hand to his temple, then tries to pretend that he was only adjusting his shades. “You think that’s news to me?” he asks in a brittle voice. “That everything that happened basically comes down to the fact that I picked Jade over Rose?” Pushing up his glasses, he shoves the heel of a hand into his bulb socket, fingertips digging into his forehead like he can pry out the memory. “He said there was no other way to stop him. If I can’t trust myself, who can I trust?”

“You don’t deserve her,” you tell him coldly.

“You’re so fucking clueless, god, just… shut up.” He starts to turn away, avoiding your accusatory glower, but you can’t stop now.

“You don’t trust her to take care of herself, you can’t trust her with _me_ , you can’t protect her from the one person who wants to hurt her, you can’t keep your filthy hands to yourself when she’s not around to catch you –”

“Shut up!” Dave’s hands clench into fists, but his heels remain flat on the floor, more like a spoiled brat throwing a tantrum than a knight defending his fucking honor, and in that moment you despise him more than you have ever despised anything, even yourself. Your blood’s on fire with craving: not to destroy him – just to engage. All you want is to be cut down in the heat of battle like a fucking warrior instead of this falling to pieces bullshit. Finding your match now, of all times, can’t be a coincidence.

“Fight me!” you bark, hackles standing on end.

“No!” he shouts back.

“Pick up your shitty-ass sword and fight me, you inglorious pissant! I can’t _believe_ I ever thought you were better than me. I’d rather shove the pointy end of this sickle up my nook than let Jade waste one more second on your worthless sack of trash. _Fight me!”_

“No! Stop fucking shouting at me, goddammit!” His sock-covered foot comes down hard, making a dull _thud_ and probably bruising his pathetically soft flesh. God, he is such a fucking wiggler.

“ _Make me!!_ ”

He comes at you, finally, not even bothering to draw his weapon, outspread fingers reaching for your collar. He opens his mouth, like he’s finally going to let you have it, tell you how wrong you’ve been all along, how he and Jade and Terezi were playing you for a sucker this whole time and you fell for it, you thought she loved you, how stupid could you be –

His mouth slams into yours, more of a collision than a kiss, really, and the sickle slips right out of your mind as it leaves your fingers. You’re not sure if the ungodly ringing is the sound of your weapon spinning across the uncarpeted floor, or the first indication of head trauma. It might be both.

Before your broken pan can limp to any conclusions, it’s over, and he’s pulling away and wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve and joking about finally figuring out how to make you shut up.

Without really thinking about it, you lunge at him, taking his face between your hands to kiss him with all your might, chasing his sleep-tainted breath. His lips are cold pressed against yours, just as his hands are icy on your feverishly hot skin, slipping up to cup the back of your neck… And it’s so wrong, because the anger is gone, and you’re kissing him like he’s some kind of stand-in for your mutual matesprit instead of the bastard you should be annihilating for breaking her trust.

This time, it’s you that falters, because you suddenly have no idea what the fuck ever you feel at all.

He won’t let you walk away. Fingers laced behind your neck, he rests his forehead against yours, and for the first time in months you see his eyes: framed by barely-there blond lashes, his bulbs are flicking in their sockets like they’re possessed.

“She was right,” he breathes, taking in your face as though seeing it for the first time. Kissing you has brought his blood to the surface, turning his lips pink and plump. It only compounds the strangeness of the mutation that gives him his white-blond hair, translucent skin, and unholy scarlet-rimmed pupils.

You swallow the question ‘What the bloody fucking hell is wrong with you,’ which is way, way too broad, and instead stick with “Who?” – even though it’s given at this point that Jade will always be the She between you and Dave.

“Both of them,” he says.

It’s becoming gut-wrenchingly obvious that he’s been stringing Jade _and_ Terezi along, and now, apparently, you too. So when he tilts his head and draws the shutters on his haunted eyes, you intend lock up, because you are not a toy to be collected, you are not a tool to be used by anyone, and he has no right to act like he owns you.

Instead, you welcome him in. You don’t have the power to refuse, because he does own you, biscuit to bones, and your pan might as well sit down, shut up, and enjoy the ride.

You let him bull you up against the wall. He slides between your teeth and kisses you until the room spins and the only thing holding you up is each other. At some point you stop trying to decipher what quadrant this clusterfuck belongs in, and throw yourself at him with all the urgency and need that you’re used to feeling for Jade.

Finally, just when you’re beginning to catch up with him, he puts on the brakes. He kisses your lips once, twice, almost tenderly, and then nuzzles the crook of your neck. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?” he asks, raising goosebumps as his breath caresses wet skin. He slides one knee past yours and presses inward, wedging his thigh between your legs. It’s almost more than you can take. Pressing your lips together, you try to suppress a moan, but it just turns into a whimper at the back of your throat. As you flatten against the wall, rocking your head back until you can feel the stone grate against the tips of your horns, he pulls your skin between his teeth.

“You’re going to have to bite harder than that,” you gasp. He presses upward in response, putting exquisite pressure on the base of your sheath, where the globes lie just under the skin. You bite back a cry, feeling a burst of warmth between your legs.

“Oh, shut up,” he breathes, covering your mouth again, and as your hands find their way under his shirt, you drag your teeth across the inside of his lower lip to show him how blackrom is done.

Without warning, he flashsteps away, leaving you to sag a few inches down the wall in surprise.

Without him in your grill, your heart fills you with its pounding the way the clock dominates a waiting block: each beat tolls portentous and heavy. As they pile on you, you shudder and crumble under the assault, tucking your hands behind your back, spreading them flat against the wall as though the cold stone could numb the shock.

“On a scale of one to Jake English, you’re a fucking slut, Karkat.” He swipes a hand across his mouth, smearing blood all the way to the corner of his jaw. “I wondered why Jade picked you. Look at that, mystery fucking solved.” Then he leans back and watches you with a blank expression as you swallow against the constriction in your throat, trying to figure out what went wrong.

“I don’t know what that –“

“Look it up,” he tosses back, tonguing at his torn bottom lip. “I’m not your fucking dictionary. As it happens, I’m late for an excruciating chat with my beloved sister.” Turning, he makes for the door. He’s leaving.

He can’t leave. Everyone always fucking leaves.

“ _You killed her, you bastard! She’s dead because of you!_ ” you shout after him, wanting to see him flinch, to cut him until he bleeds out of every pore.

“I know, right?” he says over his shoulder without missing a beat. “She was so much easier to deal with when she was alive.”

Would you even recognize sincerity from him anymore? When you try to put yourself in his head, all you can think of is the unnervingly restless gaze concealed by his shades. If he can keep that a secret, he could be hiding anything.

_It’s not that hard to figure out_ , you remind yourself roughly. _He’s a motherfucking mutant, just like me._ You examine the slouch of his spine for signs of inner turmoil until he rounds the corner, leaving you to your resentment and your problematic arousal and the acrid, foreign taste of his blood.

That night, you wake from a dream of earth-shattering sex to a frantic biscuit, sopping red-stained sheets, and a thirst as unquenchable as the ache in your groin.

It’s official. You’re going to die alone.

* * *

Dave hasn’t come out of his room for two days. Terezi, the gatekeeper, keeps her lips sealed regarding the nature of his mystery ailment, but Roxy has no such qualms.

“He’s been having these brutal migraines,” she confides. “Terezi’s trying to convince him to let me help him sleep.”

“He’s always had headaches. They never used to last for more than a few hours.” He could be a whiny little brat about them, too. Back on the meteor, Rose used to baby him, fetching pain pills and ice packs and shutting off all the lights and noise in a three room radius. That was before she started seeing Kanaya, though. After that he had to fend for himself.

“They’re getting worse,” Roxy says, eyes wide and glittering like rose quartz, like she’s telling a ghost story and this is supposed to be the spooky part.

“Or he’s just being a huge grub,” you mutter.

“What was that?” she asks sweetly. “Did you say something, Kar?”

You’ll be plagued with rumors if you try to backpedal, so you studiously ignore her sly probing and excuse yourself. Maybe she’ll forget she heard anything.

Armed with intel, you hope to use it somehow to browbeat Terezi into letting you see your moirail. To your surprise, though, she doesn’t need much convincing.

“He’s been on his best behavior since the trial,” she says, shifting on the stool that she planted in front of Dave’s bedroom door. “Now that the mother grub is gone, I guess there’s nothing to set him off.”

You can’t stop watching her omnipresent smirk and the way it stretches over the spiny teeth underneath. The black stripe down the center of her face, and the two over her cheekbones, caricaturize every expression to clownish proportions. (The lines fall as straight as iron bars when she’s passing judgment. The rest of the time, they bow sharply outward, as though bent by brute force. The imagery invoked is more than a little disturbing.)

She cheerfully ignores your fascination. She’s been getting a lot of weird looks ever since the tattoos appeared, but to your knowledge, not one single person has worked up the globes to ask about them. And to live without horns… the mere thought makes you itchy. It would be like losing all feeling to your fingers, or to one side of your face.

She combs her hair over the scars, now. You can barely tell she ever had horns.

“Anyway,” she says breezily, “I don’t see the harm in a little fraternizing, especially if Roxy is there.”

You grimace. “Does she _have_ to be there?”

“It would be preferable!” she pronounces in a crisp tone of dismissal, pretending to examine her razor-sharp nails. This is code for _If you know what’s good for you._ “Anything else?”

“…Tell your boyfriend ‘sweet dreams’ for me.”

She gives you a quizzical expression. “Why don’t you tell him?” she wants to know.

* * *

For all of her nosiness, Roxy is a lenient chaperone. She falls farther and farther behind as the three of you traipse along the footpath that follows the inner curve of the wall, while you gripe to your moirail about the travails of adolescence and how easy and angst-free human puberty must be by comparison, carefully avoiding any names or the words _second stage_. (She doesn’t need any more grease for her gossip engine, and you have no doubt she will share anything she does overhear with Terezi, whether she understands it or not.)

Gamzee is understandably more interested in the name you’re not speaking than your vaguely-worded warnings about physiologic changes that he won’t have to suffer through for probably another five or ten sweeps, at the rate he’s going.

The moment you’re sure she’s out of eavesdropping range, you pose the question that’s been corroding pits through your viscera ever since you listened to Dirk’s chilling testimony. His deliberately neutral language seemed heartless at the time, but that naked honesty saved your moirail from the rope, just as he and Roxy have been instrumental in Gamzee’s reintegration since the trial. Which means, you suppose, you owe them both a debt of gratitude, especially now that she’s letting you talk to him alone against Terezi’s orders.

Stomach churning, you ask him why English really wanted Jade dead.

He looks at you, strangely, sadly.

“Because,” he says, “she’s got the guardian what’s all up in her belly.”

“The guardian, what guardian?”

“You know. The flashy one with the whole caboodle,” he waves his hand vaguely in the direction of the great outdoors, “tucked up under its motherfucking wing.”

You stumble on absolutely nothing and halt. _No, it can’t be._ “The first guardian?” you repeat in a strangled whisper.

“That’s the one,” he says.

“Aren’t there supposed to be magic genes and, like, fucking meteors involved?”

He taps a fang with one nail, considering. “You ask me, brother, a guardian’s not supposed to be sprouting a wiggler out of her own self, neither.”

You feel a sense of existential horror creeping up your torso pillar. You glance behind, but Roxy has stopped to observe some fat bumblebees the size of sparrows jousting over a large, perfumey bush.

“Did I do that?” you whimper to your moirail.

He claps you across the shoulders with a massive mitt, sending you reeling. “Don’t see any other motherfuckers clamorin’ to take credit of it, yo,” he says reassuringly.

“Help.” It comes out as a tinny squeak. John was going to have a wiggler and he was all over it and you, you just bleated like an imbecile. At least Roxy’s easily distracted by wildlife.

“Nah, beloved,” Gamzee says, unfurling a slow grin. “You got this.”

* * *

With Roxy’s endorsement, you get the green light to have your moirail back as long as you agree to try to keep him out of trouble at night. Gamzee is pleased as pie to be rooming with you, because this means you can’t keep him from butting in next time your heart stops.

Your fellow trolls have been mostly respectful of your desire not to be fussed over like you’re some huge fucking deal. The main exception is your barbarian of a best friend, who refuses to accept that his moirail’s life expectancy is a fraction of his own. If it were up to Gamzee, you’d live forever.

But who wants to live forever? Sweep after sweep, all you do is pile on trouble.

With his help, you disassemble and move the furnace to the side of the house, away from the barn and the extreme fire hazard it represents. Dirk has plans to outfit it as a forge so he can keep up with his tinkering, and you’d sooner be out of his way.

With the oven gone, it takes less than a day to tear down the rest of the ramshackle wooden shed that was still your home this time last year. The barn beasts are turned loose in a pen near the pond, where they slowly mow the lawn while competing with the bullfrogs to see who can make the most obnoxious racket. The bewildered fowl are transferred to a hutch, and the two yellow wildcats that have been growing fat on vermin (and probably more than a few of the chickens, let’s be honest) flee their vanishing territory like squeakbeasts out of hell.

Dirk sees to his demon mare’s disposition himself. The beast is too wild for anyone else to handle.

Days like this, you feel invincible. When a harvest-orange gloom settles over the walls and nothing more can be accomplished outside, you take your energy into the house, hoping to come across a cold beer and a card game. Maybe John’ll watch something with you. Movie night was called off months ago due to rampant spoilage, but you might be able to reinstate it now that the perp’s out of town.

Sadly, morale is low since the girls are having a slumber party that turned out to be more of a lock-out than a lock-in. John just wants to spend the evening with his kids, so you end up chilling on the couch playing video games with your moirail like some kind of lame-ass scrub with nothing better to do, which is the bitter truth. Gamzee crashes early while you waste time on tedious sidequests. Finally, out of sheer boredom, you decide to rearrange the common room so that you can turn on the television without having to either A) unplug any of Dave’s equipment or B) run an extension cord across the door to the stairwell, which have been your only two options thus far.

The impulse pays off sometime after midnight, when Dave hip-checks the corner of the sofa and puts a knee through the plate glass coffee table on the way to the spot where his computer used to be.

It’s not like you’re sitting in the dark or anything; when Gamzee started nodding, you muted the television and turned off the overhead light, but you left the standing lamps the way they were because there was a cutscene and you didn’t remember which button was ‘pause’ and which one was ‘skip,’ and then there was a boss fight and he must have peaced out while you were distracted because when you finished wiping the floor with its pixelated ass, you were alone.

This is how you discover, by listening intently to Dave’s long-winded, rambling rant as he brushes off the broken glass, that he almost never opens his eyes inside the house anymore unless he has to. He knows exactly how many steps long the halls are and how many stairs are in each flight. Where he can’t get by on play-acting, the shades hide his mistakes… and then some cretin goes and rearranges the goddamn furniture.

When you clear your throat to break into his diatribe after about four minutes of rapt silence, he nearly shits his pants.

“You’re bleeding all over the console, moron.”

He glances at his arm – at least it looks like he does, but now you wonder whether he makes the movement out of habit, the way Terezi still does sometimes, or if he’s deliberately feigning normal vision. Not that you can blame him either way. There’s nothing wrong with a little denial.

Picking at a shard embedded in the palm of his hand, he says, “Have you been here the whole time?”

“Uh. Yeah.” Now you understand why his brother needs a new training partner: Dave can’t keep up anymore. You scatter shattered glass with the toe of your shoe and wait, studiously ignoring the insistent demands of the entire lower half of your body, which you’re just about ready to disown.

Candy-colored blood slowly veins his arm, gathering in beads at his fingertips. Otherwise he’s inert.

Finally, you tell him, “If your eyes are really that bad, I don’t see why you need to be coming outside every day. The UV has to be wreaking havoc on your retinas.”

Rose would have made it an order, but you don’t have her authority. All you can do is give your permission and hope he decides to cooperate. _Don’t be stupid_ , you find yourself pleading silently. “Save your eyes for the important stuff.” _Like your girlfriend? Do it for Jade, if you won’t do it for yourself._

“You sound like Terezi,” he retorts. You’re not sure if you’re supposed to be insulted, but then he says, “I don’t need your pity,” and yeah, you’re fucking insulted.

“My _pity_ ,” you snarl, “is not on offer!”

“Yikes,” he says, backing up a step. “Sorry.”

The two of you stand there, for a moment: you, brimming with outrage, and him full of… what? Obstinate fatalism?

This is what Terezi likes about him, the fact that he doesn’t agonize over things he can’t control.

Still, there’s a big fucking gap between being realistic and throwing in the ablution cloth, and something tells you that he’s on the verge of doing exactly that. He’d rather quit trying than make a real effort in vain, because the moment he shows the slightest interest in his fate, his whole hipster mystique’ll be shot to hell. And then who would he be?

For a moment, your fury finds a target: his guardian, who schoolfed him that image is everything. Then you rail against the game for stealing his agency. And then your weathervane of rage swings back to Dave himself, because the game is over and his lusus is dead, but he still clings to the flogging jut like it’s the only thing he has left.

You need Jade. She’d know how to make it better. Or, no, the other way around – he would fix himself for her. He’s sure as hell not going to do it for you.

“I’m going back to bed,” Dave says, shaking off drops of blood and the oppressive silence with a brisk flick of his fingers. “I’ll clean up this mess in the morning.”

* * *

That’s the last time you see him for four and a half long days. Terezi doesn’t even bother with door-guarding after a while. You can’t afford to lose another pair of hands with harvest looming; besides, thanks to Roxy, the migraines aren’t much of a secret anymore.

Migraines which – you’re now sure – are linked to the eyestrain he’s been subjecting himself to. As the damage worsens, he has to work harder to get any use at all out of his remaining photoreceptors.

In a perfect world, he could avoid the sun altogether. He might have gotten another year of vision if he would’ve just stayed inside. It’s the sunburn battle all over again; he won’t concede to the need for protection, tossing off “Don’t care” like it’s his motherfucking mantra.

Last summer you had Jade and Rose to cajole and bully him, respectively. This year it’s just you, and you’re failing miserably.

On Tuesday morning, you head out of the house with the same panful you’ve been chewing on for weeks – how to set your little tribe up for success so they don’t fall apart at the first sign of crisis. You can’t ready them for every contingency, but you can’t just look away and let them fend for themselves, either. They have wigglers to worry about, for fuck’s sake.

You’re halfway down the hill to the front gate when you glance over your shoulder and catch sight of a shadow moving on the roof. You tell John you forgot something and make a U-turn, mulling fruitlessly over what you could possibly say to make Dave regain his senses. As you trudge up the stairs empty-handed, you wish you at least had a peace offering, or even just something to shut him up. An orange creamsicle would’ve been perfect, but Terezi ate the last one weeks ago.

The sun’s blast hits you as you step out onto the gravel. It’s hotter than Alternia ever was; the heat radiates through the soles of your shoes and your dense thicket of hair, and makes smoky mirages in the air. There is not an ounce of shade. How is it this much hotter up here than it was on the ground?

Dave is here, the last place you’d want him to be, but you’re not here to yell this time because that’ll only stir up feelings you have no intention of acting on. Still, the sight of him spread-eagled on the rooftop with his pale hair haloing his head reminds you of Jade in the strangest way. You try to put it out of your pan.

You fail. God, he’s attractive.

Hold up. Where are his sunglasses? They’re folded up next to his hand, not on his face where they belong. Draped over the corner of the roof, it’s as though he were perched on the ledge just minding his business when he was unexpectedly bowled over by a strong gust of wind – but the air is stifling and still.

His eyes are closed, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t open a second ago, before you came through the door. He could have been out here for ten minutes. He could have been out here every second for the last four days, cauterizing his retinas while everyone thought he was sleeping off another migraine.

It only takes you a moment to understand what he’s doing. What you don’t understand is why. Even Terezi would never have done it on purpose, and she _likes_ being blind.

“If she told you she could teach you to see the way she does, she was lying through her teeth.”

He shrugs, the barest twitch of his shoulders, like the light is a physical force trapping him against the rooftop. You try again.

“I didn’t peg you for a quitter, Strider.”

“Of course I’m a fucking quitter.” His lips barely move. “I’ve been saying it for years. I didn’t want to fight Bro, but he doesn’t take no for an answer. I didn’t want to fight the other guy either. You remember.”

Yes, you do. Like it was yesterday. _You wouldn’t even lift a finger until English went after Jade._ Only now you know that he was bent on extinguishing Earth’s first guardian, not baiting the Hero of Time.

“You fought anyway, and you beat him. What do you call this? Is this your idea of victory, this self-mutilation?”

His voice, low as it is, cracks. “I call this a clean break.”

There is something rising in you, something strong and terrible, something dangerous. Crunching over to him, you stop just short and rest the sole of your shoe lightly on the rim of his shades. He doesn’t seem to recognize the sound of shifting gravel as the threat that it represents.

“Is that what you’re going to tell Jade?”

“Jade trusts me,” he retorts. “Why don’t you?”

“You haven’t done anything but shit all over her trust ever since she left!”

“Why? Because I kissed you?” he laughs. “She’s allowed to, but I’m not, is that it? Do you realize how ridiculous you sound when you try to protect her honor?”

You shift your weight ever so slightly, feeling the wire frames bend under your foot.

“Think about somebody besides yourself for a change,” you tell him. “Is this really what you want to do?”

“I should just kill myself right now. Better than being a burden, ‘cause that’s all a blind guy can ever be, right? Fuck.”

“We aren’t wigglers anymore! You’re a grown-up, so act like it! Nobody has time to babysit you!”

He just smirks. He’s the one prostrate on the ground, you have his most prized possession under your foot, and he’s making fun of you. ‘I should just kill myself right now,’ he says, like this isn’t a conversation you have with yourself every morning.

“It’s not too late, Dave. Fix it.”

“How do you propose I do that,” he drawls.

“Do your time thing,” you tell him, impatient and fully aware that you’re grasping for straws. “ _Rewind._ ”

“Can’t.”

“Like the seeds. They wouldn’t grow, so you reversed them. Like the sword.” His sword is broken now, but it hasn’t always been. He made it whole once to fight for Jade.

“I can’t rewind people, jackass. We’re wound up in this thing too tight.”

“How do you know if you won’t even fucking try?”

“I can’t just rip people out of the timeline, it’ll tear itself to shreds! That’s what you want me to do – pull the threads and watch this place unravel. How does that make me any different from English?”

Now he’s yelling at you with his eyes closed, scrunch-faced and pissed and still flat on his back. Without his shades, he’s an entirely different creature from the one you used to know, the unflappable composure, self-deprecating heroics and suite of mismatched eccentricities that embodied the Dave Strider, Douchebag of Time experience. Who is this flimsy hatchling, and what did he do with the real thing?

Anger wells up inside you. “Using your power to save someone isn’t evil!”

“What you’re asking for is evil, Kar. I wouldn’t do it for Jade, much less Rose, and either one of them would kill me for trying. What makes you think I’d do it for myself?”

He produces his specibus….

_Maybe we can end this._ You reach for your sickle.

…He produces his specibus, but doesn’t draw the jagged blade inside. Instead, he flings it at your feet and folds his arms. “Add that to your collection,” he sneers. “I’m over this bullshit.”

Something inside you snaps. It must be your common sense, because your temper isn’t on a tight leash at the best of times.

Something entirely different goes _crunch_ underfoot.

“Oops,” you say. “Good thing you won’t be needing those anymore.”

Frowning, he reaches for his shades, and finds your shoe instead.

Normally the eye only processes images at about twenty frames per second; that’s as much information as the think pan can handle. When you’re in fight-or-flight, it goes up to maybe ten times that. That’s how you get the strobe effect, where everything looks like it’s happening in slow motion.

That’s how it is for you when he reacts. It’s like you’re paralyzed, watching the scene play out in still frames.

Blink.

He’s on his feet, balancing easily on the ledge.

Blink.

His hands are on your shoulders, throwing you to the ground.

Blink.

He’s kneeling on your chest, wringing the air from your sponges, and just like that, it’s over.

“What is it about you that brings out the worst in me?” he asks.

“Strider –“

“Those were a present from John, you dickwad!” His fist crashes into the gravel beside you, showering your face with tiny rocks. One pings you right in the horn, and you flinch.

“Strider!”

He leans forward on your horns, jacking up your chin and exposing your throat. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t end you right now,” he growls, sounding more than half-troll himself.

“First,” you snap, “tell me what in the name of the mother grub’s psychic sing sphincter is _WRONG_ WITH YOUR _FUCKING EYES!_ ”

They’re nightmare fuel, twitching uncontrollably in their sockets like an epileptic in a haunted hive. As you watch, a pattern emerges: they move together, sidling away and flicking back so quickly that he couldn’t possibly be doing it on purpose, tracing an endless, aimless, dizzying elliptic.

His eyes were always a little jumpy, just enough to be mildly disconcerting, but they’ve never been this bad. It’s a fucking miracle he can open them without upchucking. They only seem to slow down when he tilts his head just right – the birdlike mannerism that you never thought twice about, except to quantify the amount of rage it engendered in passing.

He answers, but not the question you asked, his voice harsh and foreign. “Have you ever thrown up from pain, Kar?” He shifts on your chest, making you cough raggedly, burning to draw breath through your arched stem and into your lymph-flooded lungs. “Ever wanted to stop your heart because it was hammering you to pieces? Take a power drill to your skull? Cover your eyes and ears and lie on the linoleum until everything goes away, because it hurts to fucking feel anything, much less try to think? That’s what a migraine is like.”

Closing his eyes momentarily, he pries them open again and refocuses with agonizing slowness. “You think you know me? You want me to stop feeling sorry for myself? You don’t know jack fucking shit, Kar.”

He rocks back onto his toes, relieving the suffocating pressure on your chest, and you curl on your side within the frame of his limbs and hack until you gag. His expression is unsympathetic as he waits for you to finish. When you finally go quiet, tears streaming down your face, he continues in a low, embittered voice.

“If someone told me I could trade my eyesight for a cure, I’d do it in a second. Instead, all I have is this… wishful thinking.” His arms are trembling under his weight. Suddenly you wonder when he last ate. Maybe he hasn’t left his room in four days after all.

Maybe blindness really is his only option. What the hell do you know?

Your eyes meet across an impassible divide, ten inches wide but a billion sweeps deep, a voltage gap that hums with potential. You watch his eyes flicker back and forth like the sparking of spent coals.

“There has to be a better way,” you whisper through a throat filled with ground glass.

“This is it,” he answers, rising.

For the second time, he absconds. The only difference is that this time you’re not the only broken thing he’s leaving behind.

You don’t follow him for a long time. You almost don’t follow him at all… but the Jade-voice in your head says that this would be a great time to act like you have something to live for.

He doesn’t answer his door, but it’s unlocked. No one ever locks their doors. Why would they? It’s not like this is Alternia.

His room is all in twilight, the dark, heavy blackout curtains stirring in the draft until you close the door behind you. He’s just coming out of the shower, rosy and steaming and shirtless and _(heart don’t fail me now)_ he’s not so much muscled as he is _strung_ , all cord and tendon, strung like a violin. The sight of him makes your heart sing, just like his twin’s music did, while the rest of you seems to be glued to the floor.

He reminds you of Eridan’s broken angels. He reminds you of your death, just around the corner, half a heartbeat away….

Dave zips his pants and, after throwing you one dubious look, chooses to act like you’re not there. Throwing a towel over his head, he turns his back on you dispassionately and dries his hair with less than five seconds’ vigorous scrubbing. He has a mottled shape tattooed across his shoulders, another strike against the uptight kid you knew a year ago.

You put yourself in his direct line of vision, following when he tries to sidestep, and you show him the shades that you carried downstairs cradled in your hands like a wounded wingbeast.

“You can fix these, at least. Can’t you?”

This is it. This appalling display of pathos is you at your most contemptible. If he doesn’t hate you here and now for being the sorry, slime-shitting roach you are, he never will.

He stares at you for a long moment. You search his wandering bulbs for something: annoyance, disgust, ire, anything. They want to roll away sideways, but they keep coming back to you.

At last, he says, “Don’t look at me like that, Kar.”

“Like what,” you croak. _Like you’re burning down my hive with me still in it. Like you’re holding my heart in your hands. Like you took me apart with a glance, and I need you to put me back together._ Your pulse pounds mindlessly between your legs like an alarm.

“Like you can’t decide if you want me to kiss you or kill you.”

“How about both?” you answer softly, wondering how something so revoltingly desperate made it as far as your tongue, and also how much more of this bullshit you can possibly take. No one should ever have to die with question marks in their quadrants.

“How about pick one or get out of my room.”

That’s not much of a choice, is it? He tenses as you approach, halting within arm’s reach with the bent frames still cupped in your hand, but he doesn’t even glance at them.

“Why’d you call me that?”

“Call you what? Kar? That’s your name.”

He’s never called you that before today. Ever. Before the humans started doing it, the only person who ever called you Kar was Eridan, and it meant he needed something from you. Now… Well, who the fuck knows what it means now? But the way he says it, soft and almost threateningly intimate, is like a leash around your throat.

“That’s what Jade calls me,” you say.

“Yeah? So?”

“So…” The word skips like a broken record in your head. _So you already decided what to do with me._ And you still have no idea if he knows that he’s toeing a very dark line, making you ask for it anyway. _Sosososososososososo_ , your heart throbs. “…Fucking kiss me.”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Terezi told me this would happen.”

You freeze, pan racing. “Which part?”

“The part where you show up begging for my dick.”

“I’m not begging.”

“Not yet.” The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Look, if you’re not going to do it because you want to, then I don’t – “

The lie you were about to voice evaporates as he catches you by the waist and says, “Who says I don’t want to?” And that, well, holy shit. He might as well have put a bullet in your head.

The shades hit the floor.

This time there’s no forcefulness to him. He kisses you like he wants to save you, to capture this moment in all its granularity and preserve it unfiltered. You’ve had him on a pedestal for so long that the inversion feels sacrilegious, but you’re so hungry for his attention that you find yourself ransacking your mental furniture to find a configuration that makes it okay. You make a low noise of approval against his mouth. Kissing continues to be fucking awesome.

As hope invades your chest, you part your lips. His teeth are pathetically dull, and you slide across them cavalierly as the kiss deepens, turning into something insistent and raw. When his fingertips brush the side of your neck, you shiver and whimper, collapsing against him as your knees go weak. Silently, you lift your eyes to his, anxious for the verdict, even as you curse the programming that reduces you to a limp dishrag in front of the person your body chose to usher you into second stage adulthood.

“Okay,” he says. “We’re doing this.”

You stare at him in disbelief as your biscuit makes a sickening leap. One more word and you’ll be spewing your pungent effluent all over the floor whether he actually goes through with it or not.

“Why?”

“Why not? You need your cherry popped, I need to get you out of my head, and Jade’ll get a kick out of the fact that we hooked up. It’s win-win-win.” He catches the look on your face. “It means lose your virginity, damn it. And if you don’t know what that means either, I’m out.”

“How do you know that’s what this is about?”

“I’d give you three guesses, but that’d be a waste.”

Your expression sours as you straighten, pushing him away. “Fucking Terezi.”

“She says she can smell it. You’ve been like this for days but you can’t get off without the real thing.”

_Not for lack of trying._ Like most trolls your age, you’d been looking forward to this moment for sweeps – and yet, when it arrived, you would’ve given anything to make it go away. Like, seriously contemplating swallowing your shame and asking Gamzee to step in, knowing that only the strongest moirallegiances survive crossing that line.

“Look,” he continues, folding his arms, “I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about, but I know that if I catch you giving me one more of those hurt, hopeless looks, I will happily gouge my worthless eyes out with a spoon. So here’s how it’s going to play out: I’m going to sex you up, you’re going to be boned within an inch of your life, we both enjoy the hell out of ourselves, and something about buckets.”

Ignorant dickbag. “Then what?”

“Then everything goes back to the way it was, except that when Jade comes home and you’re lying in bed feeling sorry for yourself, you’ll know exactly what you’re missing.”

You curl your lip at that. The thought that antipathy plays a role in his offer – no matter how small – puts a joyful pang in your biscuit, even as the rest of you revolts against the possibility that he’s building you up all over again just to tear you back down. You want him black, you _need_ him black, but most of all you need _him_. This has to be right, even if it’s not exactly how you pictured pitch playing out.

“Okay.”

Your answer catches him off guard. Suddenly, he’s the one that looks uncertain. “Are you sure? Don’t get me wrong, I’m fucking flattered, but I’d hate to be in here deflowering you if there were anybody you’d actually have a chance with.”

“There’s no one but you, you fucking egotistical turd processor,” you growl.

He actually cracks a half-grin at that, amusement creasing his cheek. “How romantic,” he says, with a hint of affection that makes you flush indignantly. He stoops for your hand, but you evade, retreating across the room to peel off your shirt before you suffocate in it.

“Where’re you going?” he calls.

“I’m undressing,” you growl through the black fabric. “Unless you already changed your mind. Not that I’d blame you, but I’d appreciate it if you’d at least pretend to be sorry this time.” Yanking at the shirt, you open your eyes only to lose your balance in surprise when you realize how close he is.

“I meant, why’d you come all the way over here? I can barely see you.” His eyes, tired but avid, take their sweet time finding your face.

“Why do you need to see me?” you retort, stiffening as he loops his arms around your waist. “This isn’t a fucking fashion show.”

“That right there. Don’t do that. Don’t ruin this by second-guessing every fucking detail. This is a team effort, got it? Make it worth my while, and I promise you won’t regret it.”

Your face burns under his gaze as he waits for you to respond, running his thumb along the base of your spine. Your bulge is already clamoring for attention. Torn between not wanting to give him the satisfaction and desperately needing to know, your next words come out as a barely coherent mumble. “What do you want me to do?”

The half-grin returns. “Easy. If you’re enjoying yourself, tell me. If you want something, ask for it. Can you handle that?”

That actually sounds kind of nice. Physically impossible, maybe – for you – but nice. Reasonable, even. He chuckles at how quick you are to nod. Pulling you closer, now stomach to stomach, he puts his hand on your cheek, thumb resting on your lips. They part for him as he contemplates your mouth. Then he leans in, and you close your eyes.

The kiss you’re expecting never materializes. When your eyes reopen, he’s looking at you with an expression of mild concern.

“Kar, you’re on fire. Why’re you so hot? Do we need to call in the bucket brigade?”

You snort, refusing to either acknowledge his lewd joke or answer the serious question that prompted it. “You think I’m hot?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

Any other day you would’ve taken that for irony, but today you can look him in the eyes and tell he actually means it. An admission like that deserves a fucking ovation.

It isn’t his imagination; you’ve been running warmer and warmer all summer, so feverishly hot that your skin tingles and you have to strip down and take a cold shower if you want to think straight. His touch is almost unbearable, hands running across your skin, making you shiver; it’d be agonizing if you weren’t already half-dissociated from the chemical storm of endorphins.

You kiss him as viciously as you dare. He’s dynamic, intense, leaving you gasping for breath when you separate, only to dive right in for more. His breath huffs across the side of your neck as he laughs at his fumbling hands on your belt buckle. While he’s busy with your pants, you palm the front of his and find exactly what you were hoping for. Inhaling sharply, he pulls your thigh against his hip; you can feel him pressing into your inseam. You throw your arms around his neck as you exchange reckless amounts of spit. The next time his hips hitch, you pull him down on top of you and hit the bed, hard.

Then you’re flat on your back with your mouth full of rutting tongues, and you fight your way down between cloth and skin to grab his ass and squirm up against him. At first it’s just pressure, holding him against your hips, feeling the ache of everything but penetration as he groans softly against your lips. His butt clenches between your fingers as he grinds up into you. He breaks away to plant sloppy, wet kisses down your jaw and neck, licking the base of your throat. Your mouth works, teeth clamping down on your lip to silence yourself as you get the hang of his rhythm. He bites you, combing your wet skin, and you surge upwards, crying out as your hand tightens in his still-damp hair.

Letting go of him might be the hardest thing you’ve ever done. He rolls onto his back and pulls off his pants, revealing his junk, tip straining against the fabric of his boxers. Then, kneeling over you, he works your pants down off your hips as you pull yourself backward, kicking off the legs. Hoping that he’s too blind to have noticed the red stains soaking through the cloth, you sit up, touching his bulge – dick, you guess – through his underwear. It’s thick and firm, with a blunt, heavy head, but no sheath. Yours is fully extended, lying wet on your stomach, and you don’t really want to know what he thinks about it, so you work on distracting him.

He indulges your curiosity for a moment, then removes your hand as he studies your heated face, heaving chest, and clamped legs, the same ones that were squeezing his hips not very long ago. When he meets your eyes again, his expression is unguarded, in stark contrast to yours. You brace for impact: if it’s going to go wrong, it’ll probably be in the next five minutes.

“So, I guess you want me on top?”

You hadn’t really thought about it – at least, not in those terms. You’ve definitely, you know, _thought_ about it. “…Yeah.”

His eyes narrow. “Are you just saying that? ‘Cause we had a deal.”

“You asked me a question and I answered it. What the hell do you want me to say? ‘I’m ready for you, Dave, please hold me down and fuck me’?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, if that’s what you want. Is that what you want?”

“No, I just want you on top. Holding me down is optional, jackass.”

“Okay then,” he says, and kisses you again, sliding his hand down your leg, which moves at his touch. When he reverses direction, you open for him like a flower. His hand slides into the narrow gap between your legs as you shift to give him better access. Fingers slicked with your fluid, he strokes your entrance. When he breaches you, your nook tightens around his fingertip, and you almost forget not to bite him – not after what happened last time you drew blood.

A little breathlessly, he says, “Am I looking for something specific?” You lean back as he kneels between your legs and glances down.

“Oh shit,” he says.

“What?” A bolt of panic shoots through your chest. You knew it – there was never any way this was going to go well.

He holds up his hand, half-painted red. “Sorry, give me a second. I wasn’t expecting to get into bed with fucking Carrie. Really gives ‘prom night’ a whole new meaning.”

“It comes out in the wash,” you tell him, defensively.

“Yeah, no, it’s cool,” he says, rubbing the slippery fluid between his fingers. “Kinda hot, actually. This must have been what T was smelling.” He sniffs it as you watch with detached horror. “Is this supposed to do something to me?”

“Pheromones,” you choke out. The musky scent is supposed to advertise your, um, ‘availability’ to your unlucky chosen. If he were a troll, standing as close as he was, he would’ve responded to it immediately. You could’ve sealed the deal right there in the common room, preferably on the pile he already had going… which just goes to show that it _would_ be you left to flounder through this shitshow of an adolescence without even the minimal advantage of chemistry to help you match quadrants. You hiss. “Don’t lick it, that’s disgusting.”

“Actually, it’s not,” he says, wiggling out of his boxers and flopping down on his belly. As his breath hits the cooling liquid, a fresh spurt trickles between your legs. “You must be hurting,” he says, wrapping his arms under and around your thighs. His eyes traverse the length of your body before meeting yours. He smirks. “Good news is, even a slut like you is a queen in my bed.”

_Slut (noun): a sexually promiscuous person._ You looked it up. It’s not a compliment, but something about the way he says it kind of makes it sound like one. Is that what he wants you to be? “What’s the bad news?” you ask in a tight voice as he licks the inside of your leg.

He presses his lips to your thigh, then looks up at you thoughtfully. “I think I’m going to make you beg me before I finish.”

Snarling, you snap, “What makes you think – aahhh!!!” You glare down at the top of his head. “Bite me there again, you fucking baboon, I swear to god. I’ll shove my claws up your fucking nose.”

He lays another kiss over the base of the tendon, like that fucking helps. Then he kisses you again, a little closer to your nook. The third lands right on top of it.

Then he keeps doing it, tongue tracing your cleft and teasing inside. He’s totally making out with it. And it feels… a lot better than when Jade tried it, back before your nook was actually open for business. You gasp, thighs clenching, struggling to stay mad in the face of the fact that he’s obviously enjoying having you in this position. Not that his ego needs any more stroking, but maybe you will be begging before it’s over.

“Okay, Kar?” You nod hurriedly. Your name from his lips is a magic word: even when he had you helpless and suffocating underneath him, you would‘ve given him whatever he wanted. “’Kay,” he says, “tell me when,” and he licks up into you.

Having Dave between your legs is a rush, teetering on the knife edge between power and vulnerability. There’s no reason to do what he’s doing; you don’t need to be turned on, you’ve been permanently on since he kissed you the first time. He’s just doing it because he wants to – and, possibly, because he knows he’s withholding what you actually need. How much did Terezi tell him?

A ravished whimper – yours – puts an end to that line of thought. He found what he was looking for, the ventral groove between your globes. You gasp as he runs his tongue along it. He looks up, watching your expression as he puts his fingers inside you again. You couldn’t hide your response if you wanted to; your lip is ridged with teeth and your heart’s racing like you’re running a marathon. You have to make a conscious effort to keep your hands off your bulge as he rubs the spot, fingers sunk in to the knuckle. Then he’s pulling apart your legs, splaying you open like a book as he devours you.

“Ah, fuck –“ you moan, biting back his name. His chuckle throbs through you and cranks you up another notch. Shoulders jammed against the backs of your thighs, he tongue-fucks you as you quiver with each flick. As good as it is, it’s not enough – it would never be enough. “Shit, Dave – please –“

“Say it,” he demands, his voice coarse with lust.

“Quit showing off and fuck me, asshole!” you gasp, squirming to meet him halfway.

“God, that’s hot,” he mutters appreciatively, just before his mouth slams into yours. You can taste yourself on him, warm, and a little sweet. Below, he’s pressing into your nook with more caution. You have to stop trying to gag him with your tongue for a minute to pant into his neck before he’s even halfway in.

He asks, “Is that okay?” Animosity infuriatingly thwarted once again, you whimper an affirmative. Then he plunges in, driving all thought out of your pan.

You blow on his next thrust, when he seats himself fully inside you with a tiny noise; for a short – but awful – second, you’re afraid that he came too. Your genetic material spills between you, painting a Rorschach inkblot that would’ve made his sister proud, and he freezes.

“I thought you couldn’t come until I did,” he says.

Throwing your arm across your face, you yell into it.

“Are you crying? Don’t cry,” he says, pushing your arm away.

Leaving your elbow crooked over your head, you turn away, unable to meet his eyes. Whether or not you’re crying is debatable. “I’m going to fucking kill her.”

“Come on, Kar. She’s just trying to help.” He takes your face between his hands and makes you look at him, brushing your cheek gingerly, like you might explode. “Do you want to keep going?”

He blinks down at you, ruby gaze awash with concern. He’s fucking serious.

“If you don’t finish what you started, I’ll gouge your eyes out myself,” you growl. You’re throbbing around his bulge, fuller than you ever could’ve imagined, and he’s going to fuck you stupid or… there isn’t an “or.” He’s going to fuck you stupid, period.

As if he doesn’t quite believe you, he first leans down to gather your lips, and when he begins moving again it’s in long, slow strokes. It’s almost better this way: without the distraction of your bulge, you can focus on the epicenter of sensation building in your core.

_I could get used to this_ , you think hazily.

This is what you feel, in peeling layers:

You feel the sticky cum drying on your groin, and the sticky sweat drying in your hair.

You feel like the spark from that single point of friction is setting you ablaze and you’re burning up from the inside out; your skin is ten feet from your body and the only thing keeping you from going supernova is the cool pressure of being caught between him and the sheets, not as good as a cold bath but far better than going critical alone.

You feel the way he holds you close, not at arm’s length like some object. After reducing you to a soaking mess, he could’ve had you any way he wanted, but instead he kisses you like there’s something real here under all the loneliness and biological imperative. Which is insane, right, this is Dave, he doesn’t have feelings, but maybe you completely misread him, maybe he’s one of those people who doesn’t play unless it’s for keeps –

– who are you fucking kidding, of course he is, he won’t even touch a game he can’t win –

_– oh god what have I done he’s supposed to love Jade that’s his job and so what if he hates me a little on the side except I don’t even know if he can do both of those things at once and what if I ruined everything because I wanted somebody to hold me before I die –_

So your brain is screaming _abort, abort,_ but it’s a quiet little scream, a space scream, and your heart is pounding     I     CAN’T     TAKE     THIS     in a throttled halting stutter and your traitor legs are clinging to him because oh god yes this is exactly what you needed and how incredible is it that he actually does want you, and how unfair is it that he belongs to somebody else?

“Feel you, baby,” he squeezes in when he can find the breath and the space between you, which is at a premium at the moment and you’re monopolizing whatever you can reach because you can’t get enough of any part of him. You interlock like puzzle pieces as he anchors you and pushes, pushes, inundating you with intoxicating kisses that you return with interest. You can feel the head of his bulge as it drives through you, stoking you to open flame, and there is a wildfire warming the base of your spine. “Louder,” he urges breathlessly, alerting you to the fact that you’ve been stifling the most humiliating noises as you arch into each thrust, but you can’t stop because they’re the only thing keeping you from losing it completely.

“Someone’ll hear,” you moan.

His fingers tighten in your hair, not roughly, and he speaks into your neck where the barest brush of his lips feels like a lightning strike. “So? Kanaya won’t tell.”

That’s right, everyone else is outside, and Rose’s bride hardly notices the living these days. Still, force of habit is a powerful gag; besides, if John ever found out about this, he’d probably rupture something important.

It doesn’t matter, because Dave’s breaking down your walls his own way, working up to a rapid, shallow shag that leaves you with your toes cramping and tongue curling and horns digging into the mattress. His breath comes hard as he watches you come apart underneath him, eyes like embers in the dim. Your nails bite frantically into his back.

You don’t know how you manage to swallow so you can speak. “Fuck, Dave, I’m –“

He stops dead, displacing your ankles so he can withdraw. You choke back a sob of frustration and curl protectively around your hollow center.

“Bucket,” he says, huskily, and pushes you over sideways. Panting with relief as he repositions himself behind you, you manage to get the receptacle upright and between your legs. He takes your bulge in his fist while the other hand braces your hip, giving him the leverage to grind against you maddeningly. “Make some noise, Kar,” he purrs.

Leaning forward to nip at the skin alongside your spine, he rubs you with excruciating slowness. You keen, rocking back against him, but his bulge just slides between your legs. You drop to your elbows and try again. This time he catches at the edge of your entrance before slipping past it. Bowing your head, you watch a long string of scarlet drip onto the already-ruined sheets and fucking hell, your nook is _drooling_ , how fucking obscene is that? His bulge and thighs are painted a gloriously hedonistic red, and you can’t help but admire how fine he looks in your color. If he holds back now you’re going to combust right here on his bed out of spite, burn down his block with your charred corpses still fused together inside it, and it would be Just because it’s no less than he deserves for being a fucking intractable-ass goddamned nooktease.

“Please,” you moan face first into the pillow. The bed smells of musth. If you suffocate before you finish, you will haunt him until his stupid cape rots away to rags.

He grabs a substantial chunk of your ass and makes an encouraging sound as his hips roll against it.

Turning your head sideways, you let your weight rest on your cheekbone in a puddle of spit. You left your dignity on the roof; there’s no point pretending that this isn’t exactly what you came for. “Please fuck me! I need you to come inside me, Dave. _Please!_ ”

“Such a slut, baby,” he replies, voice thick with veneration, and he guides himself back in. Whatever reason you had for being quiet escapes you completely as you rut to the sound of his reverent praise.

“Come for me, darlin’,” he says over your sex-starved cries. “Kar, baby, you gorgeous thing, come for me, sweetheart…”

He milks you through your release when it comes, pumping you into the pail until you sag into the mattress to catch your breath.

The look on his face when you turn on him is priceless.

“My turn,” you tell him as you mount him, sinking onto his sopping wet bulge – dick, whatever. You begin to ride, thighs clenching his pistoning hips, feeling strong and fierce for winning such a magnificent rival. Your fingers flex, wanting to sink claw-deep in his stomach, but you settle for scratching lines from smallribs to navel. It’s a small comfort, but one good thing about your matesprit’s absence is that you can keep your claws sharp for your kismesis.

_Kismesis_. The word rolls through your head until there’s nothing left but the hiss and an intense joy that borders on madness. He feels impossibly good inside you, and you want it to always be like this.

Propping himself up on an elbow, Dave hooks his arm over your shoulder. His fingers work through your wiry hair until he has a death grip on the back of your head, but all he does is tilt you forward, resting your forehead against his own. Your color is still smeared across his cheeks like blood.

His eyes capture yours, crimson and ravenous, and they speak as he bucks under you unevenly. For a moment, you experience an exquisite communion.

You understand everything. You wish you didn’t.

He comes voicelessly, genetic material spilling inside you in great spurts as he comes to a stop. Moments later, you expel his member with a wet noise.

“What the hell, Kar,” he grouses, as you draw yourself off of him.

“Spinal reflex,” you gasp, reaching between your legs to finger the tight muscle, now clamped shut. You guess it’s a troll thing – Jade likes to keep you inside her for a minute while she recovers, and obviously that’s what he was expecting too. It’s hard to pay much attention to his pouting; the feeling of having a full nook is too novel.

Straddling his chest, you touch yourself, two fingers on either side of your slit. Your head tips back, but his last scorching look is painted on the inside of your eyelids. Your pan shreds as it tries to armor itself in ignorance for just a few more seconds.

Surprisingly quick on the uptake, Dave scrambles backwards to rummage around in the carnage you’ve made of his bed. The cold rim of the bucket is forced between your thighs. You can hear your cum slosh around the bottom as it starts to congeal.

You growl, pushing at him ineffectually. He doesn’t budge. Bracing the pail against his knees, he wraps an arm around the small of your back as he pulls your hand away, taking even this petty retribution away from you. He puts his own hand between your legs.

“Get rid of it,” you tell him unhappily as he nibbles the side of your neck. “Even if we still had a mother grub – which, news flash, we don’t – she sure as hell wouldn’t want anything to do with you.” You regret getting the bucket out in the first place, though, in your defense, you were in the middle of a truly mind-blowing screw at the time. Still are, technically, even though now he’s ruining it.

“I believe,” he tells you softly, and you shiver at the chilling echo of his sister’s last words. He sounds like her, a little. You resist as he kisses you, lingering and deep, a kiss that leaves you destitute. You feel his lips stretch into a smile; he can tell you’re giving in. You hate him so very much.

You slide your cheek in hard next to his so that your breath hisses into his ear. “Harder,” you plead, and he obliges. Groaning, you take him hostage with grave ferocity, nose digging into his cheekbone and teeth sliding roughly over his lips. There’s an unbearable urgency building inside you – after ages of craving, you’re so fucking close.

” _Dave_ ,” you cry into his mouth, tongue flicking against his as he snatches his hand away. As you release his cum to mingle with yours in the bottom of the bucket, a profound emptiness takes its place.

He wraps around you loosely and lays his head on your shoulder, holding you while you tremble with aftershocks. The steady rise and fall of his chest is unbearably comforting against your own heaving ribs.

“What are you going to tell Jade?” you ask him dully. Now that it’s over, the weight of what just happened is coalescing in your stomach. You feel wrung out and wretched. How could you have been so stupid?

His jaw moves against your collarbone as he responds, in a disturbingly contented voice, with the last words you want to hear: “That I know how she feels.”

You feel like you’ve somehow been betrayed – though, if you were being honest, you’d have nothing to blame but your own deluded fantasies. _This is your fucking tragedy._ He warned you; you should’ve listened.

Instead of coming down, your heart is pounding away inside your chest like a runaway train, threatening to redecorate the rest of his room the same color as his sex-soiled bedding. “I wish you hated me,” you confess bitterly.

At your next shuddering breath, he shoves you away, and you double over, coughing violently.

“Alright, you got what you wanted, now get out,” he says, suddenly looking at anything but you. He slings the bucket into your arms. Diaphragm cramping, you dry heave over the thickening slurry. Your eyes won’t focus.

“Don’t worry about killing me,” you grate out, nearly incomprehensible against the diorama of your disintegration. “You already did.”

“Suck it up, drama queen,” he spits. “One little revenge fuck is not going to kill you.” He pushes you through the door, which slams on your shoulder as you slump against it. You hear him fall heavily against the other side.

The polished wood feels good against your fevered skin, but you can’t stay here – you’re naked and disgusting. As you heave to your feet, lurching down the hall with nothing to cover yourself but the used pail, you wonder why it never occurred to you to captchalogue some fucking emergency pants. Your spasmodic hacking begins to sound more like bleak laughter.

_When will you learn, Kar?_ _There is no happy ending, not for you. You’re a disease._

_No you’re not,_ inserts a different voice, a voice buoyed with delight. She lifts you up, clearing your eyes with a crystal kiss. _You just need to learn how to forgive yourself. After that, everything else will be easy. Even love!_

_Come home, Jade,_ you beg. _I can’t do this without you._

_Sure you can!_ she giggles. _I believe in you, darling!_

Your last step sends you stumbling into your ablution block, where you collapse in the trap, cursing your biscuit for giving out at the worst possible time. _There’s so much left to do. Dave…_

_That’s the spirit,_ she says, smothering you in joy as the blackness eats away your limbs. _Don’t give up!_

* * *

You’re born again in much the same way that you died: stark naked, coughing, and sprawled in the bottom of your trap.

“Not yet, motherfucker,” your moirail growls. He raises his fist to strike you again. When you flinch away, he lets it drop, relief stamped on his features.

You take an experimental breath, trying not to hack up a sponge for five seconds. It doesn’t seem like he broke any ribs, though you feel like you’ve been backed over by a large, non-extant human vehicle.

“Have some prop huggers,” he tells you, turning on the tap. Cold water floods into the basin; you’re half-surprised it doesn’t flash into steam when it touches you.

The sweatpants he draped over the lid of the gaper disappear into your sylladex as you mutter, “Emergency pants.” Wetting a washcloth, he nods like everything about what you just said makes perfect sense. You try not to wonder why he thought it was necessary to keep a pair of your pants in his inventory – unless he was afraid you might leak through the ones you were already wearing. What a swell motherfucker he is, your moirail.

Your heart rate begins to slow as the welcome chill settles in. “How long was I gone?” you ask wearily, submitting to his scrubbing.

“Not long,” he hums. “Still hot enough to singe a motherfucker.”

“Was not, you dirty liar.”

“Too,” he says, showing you his knuckles, but you’re not convinced. That purple shadow’s probably a bruise from trying to stave in your ribcage. “Motherfucking heat lightning. Egbert up and rounded all the bodies back inside.”

Apparently you got lucky on multiple levels.

“So,” he probes enquiringly, “it looks like my one and only got his hate on?”

“Maybe…” You share a sideways smile with your moirail before disquiet retakes you. “He called it a revenge fuck, but I don’t believe it,” you sigh. “I think he’s flushed for me, Gamzee.”

Your moirail swirls the cloth in the water, trying to get it clean again before he resumes his mothering. It’s hard to tell, because he rarely stops smiling completely, but you think he’s laughing at you. “Poor little pupa can’t catch a break,” he clucks sympathetically. You splash him with the pink bathwater out of irritation.

“I can’t shake the feeling that Terezi had something to do with this. Is she messing with us?” She could’ve just asked for her canes back, instead of orchestrating some intricate retaliation. Could she be that far off the rails?

“My painted harpy’s got gears all up in her wheels, that’s for fucking truth,” he agrees, draping the rag over the faucet, where it dribbles infuriatingly on your feet. “Now what, brother?”

“Now… I have to decide.” If Dave really is waxing red, you should either choose to pursue it or let it end here. The third option – continuing to antagonize him, hoping he will swing black – would be pointless, not to mention unendurable; he’s already proven that he can play you like a deck of cards.

_No,_ you tell yourself, _I deserve better than that._ Jade would be so fucking thrilled with you right now.

If, on the other hand, it really was a revenge fuck – well, your fledgling plan doubles as payback, assuming it works. That shouldn’t make you feel guilty, but it does.

You duck your head, watching the bubbles obscure Gamzee’s maniac grin, hanging over you like a sharkbite chandelier. He leans forward in anticipation, his long hair falling off his forehead and almost into the water, as you break the surface.

“Have you seen my nail clippers?” you ask him. His dimples deepen.

* * *

Phase one of your mission is research. (Gamzee wanted to call it Operation Bucket List, but that would give it away and also oh jegus his pan needs to be sandblasted.) You’ve already seen most of John’s romcoms, but Jake has a whole wall full of unplundered feel-good gems with almost zero overlap. You even sneak into Kanaya’s room to browse the paperbacks; she has a surprisingly large collection of steamy novellas of the Supernatural Romance variety. Without exception, they’re each comprehensively annotated in Rose’s immaculate, old-fashioned cursive.

On one excursion you accidentally walked in on the Widow herself, wrapped in her quilt and napping in Rose’s rocking chair. You thought you made it out without incident, but the next day you found a tidy stack of books inside your door, and a note with two words: _Take Them_.

Meanwhile, you see little of Dave. He avoids you when it’s easy, and the rest of the time, he ignores you. This actually plays right into your claws; you aren’t interested in playing cat-and-vermin anymore. He wants to be left alone, you leave him alone.

The problem with this tactic only becomes apparent when you’re ready move into phase two.

His remaining eyesight is receding rapidly; the only way you can tell that he can see at all is that he ties a folded strip of black cloth over his eyes unless it’s completely dark. If he were blind, he wouldn’t know when to take it off, would he?

You happened to be in the room when Dirk first encountered him without his sunglasses; he immediately pulled off his own and offered them up as a gift. Just like that, without hesitation. When Dave turned them down, he simply folded them and put them away. Now, with two Striders walking around shadesless and no Rose to needle you or anyone else into submission, the big house is starting to feel a lot like the Daybreak Zone.

When you tried to explain how you felt about this exercise in Strider psychology, Gamzee just rumbled happily over your meandering rant. “Some people are straight up considerate motherfuckers,” he told you. You’re still not sure what to make of that.

Your moirail supplies the big spoon heat sink to your miniature nuclear meltdown. When the nightmares take you, when you jerk awake with the searing afterimage of a pale shade with charred sockets and a question you can’t answer on his lips, Gamzee is always there to pet you back to sleep. Still, you’ve never missed sopor more than you do when Dave comes looking for the girl he chose to save.

Blind Dave should be pretty much just like Regular Dave, right?

Wrong. Blind Dave sucks. Blind Dave won’t leave the house, doesn’t change his clothes, and barely eats. Blind Dave is not sexy. Blind Dave makes you want to go into a closet and scream.

Blind Dave doesn’t give a shit about apple saplings or sick beats or even John’s precious little wigglers. Blind Dave thinks the world doesn’t see him if he can’t see it. Blind Dave is Pining Dave, who’s afraid that Jade is as lost to him as his sister, and even Terezi can’t wring a single damn out of him because he simply has none to give.

Her bed hasn’t been slept in for over a week. You can’t help but feel grateful. If she can keep him from doing something stupid, then she’s your ally… even if it means you’ll have to duke it out later.

As the vision loss advances, the migraines abate – but his misery still escalates. You can’t help wondering if you could have mitigated it by confessing weeks ago instead of letting him sit tight while you hit the books.

After Terezi spends two hours inveigling him to go outside and deal with his damn apple trees, you do it yourself, reasoning that he wouldn’t want Jade to come home to a dying orchard. When your ex-matesprit announces loudly that he owes you, Dave doesn’t even acknowledge her.

Phase two is supposed to be where you get him to pay attention to you, and that’s where it goes wrong, because how’re you going to knock him off his feet if he can’t even look at you? In the movies, your basic love-struck romantic might try to ply him with thoughtful gifts or impress him with a daring act of sheer idiocy, but none of the standard plotlines will work here. Honestly, they wouldn’t work on him even if his vision was perfect.

He didn’t sleep with you because you somehow managed to seduce him. He did it because he was heartsick and you were throwing yourself at him like a tabby in heat. You could always try that again, of course, but you’ve already seen where that road leads, and it’s not a place you want to go.

Sighing, you dig deeper into your bag of tricks. If you were Jane – or Gamzee, or even John – you might try feeding him; the idea came up often enough in your research on human romance that it might actually have some merit, though on Alternia when someone started bringing you food it was usually because they were trying to poison you. You’ve never noticed John cooking for Roxy, but it’s totally something he would do if the thought occurred to him. Unfortunately, you don’t have Egbert’s easy charm or his sister’s culinary talent. Anyway, the only thing you even know how to make is pancakes, and who ever heard of seducing someone with pancakes?

So taste is out, but that still leaves you three whole senses to work with. Touch is tricky; you can’t just suddenly start putting your hands on him. Touch is something you’ll have to warm up to. As for sound, there’s only so much you can do to modulate your tone of voice, but you can work on what you say and when you say it. Little things can go a long way when you’re as lost as he is.

And he is so very lost.

You recognize it in everything he does, how he doesn’t jump into other people’s conversations anymore, the way he traces the same routes over and over until you wonder how he hasn’t carved a track into the floor. He doesn’t seek anyone out for any reason. He only has two settings, mope and sleep. You can imagine how you would feel in his place: torn between the vehement rejection of sympathy – especially in the face of Rose’s lingering mourning period, what kind of asshole makes a fuss about his own stupid problems when his sister just _died_ – and the desire for his limitations to be acknowledged so he can stop pretending that everything’s okay. In short, he feels left out.

What he needs is an advocate. Terezi’s trying, but she’s not the type to coddle, and the rest of the usual coolkid-pampering suspects are out of the picture. You have no desire to patronize him, but maybe if you reach out he’ll meet you halfway.

The problem is that Terezi doesn’t really understand what he’s going through. Well, god help you, you do. You grew up under the empire’s heel; you know what it’s like to guard your secrets, hoping no one asks too many questions. You’ve said goodbye to more dead friends than you care to count. But most importantly, you know how it feels to have Jade Harley ripped away from you like a lost tooth.

The last facet of your multi-pronged approach is both the simplest and the most difficult. Climbing on a stool, you retrieve a dark brown medicine bottle filled with cologne from the top shelf of your ablution block cabinet. It’s the kind that cough syrup comes in, with a wiggler-proof safety cap on top that keeps the smell in.

The bottle’s label is hand-lettered, a scrap of wide-ruled loose leaf paper covered with a piece of packing tape to protect the ink from running. It says “for karkat :)” in an unmistakably girlish hand. The fragrance has no name; the label’s merely there to remind you where it came from.

Removing the top, you waft the vapor to your cartilage nub and inhale deeply, acutely aware of the fact that someone could easily mistake you for the kind of slimeball who cares about smelling good instead of just not smelling bad. The spicy scent of resin is as fresh as it was last Christmas, when Jade gave it to you, but you were half-hoping the concoction would have spoiled and saved you the humiliation of being the fuckass who wears cologne around the house when everyone else routinely attends meals in their pajamas.

The worst part is, within a matter of minutes, they’ll figure out that you’ve got a crush. You’ll have to keep your chin up and keep them guessing.

If he miraculously falls for you because you suddenly smell awesome, great – but that would completely miss the point. You need him to know when you’re nearby, even if you don’t touch him, even if you don’t say a word. You need him to know where you’ve been and which of the wadded up tee shirts in the common room are yours. You need him to think about you when he least expects it, and to linger when his mind should be somewhere else. You need to be the one person in the world he would recognize in utter silence. _That’s_ why you have to wear cologne; as distasteful as you find the idea, it’s mission-critical.

After some experimentation, you figure out how to put it on without getting it everywhere. It’s not meant to be a fucking assault weapon.

Straightening, you check your mug in the mirror. You don’t look any different, other than being freshly showered; your hair still stands up in stiff tufts over your sour, hatchet-faced expression, heavy eyebrows and downturned mouth. Your eyes, like his, are off-putting, but they stand out against your dusky skin, and the warm color complements your half-formed horns.

Once again, you ask yourself what anyone sees in you – even though deep down, you realize that a criterion of success in any relationship involves throwing your hands in the air and admitting that you probably have some redeeming quality in you somewhere, or else your life makes no fucking sense. This grudging surrender is the closest you ever get to not totally detesting yourself.

In the end, the knot of resolve solidifying in your gut – and its reflection in your face – is what convinces you that you’re doing the right thing. You catch a whiff of Jade’s creation and yeah, it smells good, it smells… intriguing. Maybe she knew what she was doing after all.

The plan proceeds at the speed of cold honey. There’s no other way; if you make a false step, he’ll shut you out, and you’re not getting a third chance.

The first thing that happens when everything gets rolling is actually probably the single best thing that could’ve happened: John catches on to your new habit of tossing a “Hey, Dave” at the withdrawn Strider whenever you see him, and soon everyone’s doing it. Over the course of about a week and a half, you watch Dave morph from being little more than common room furniture into a real, live person who feels included enough to hold a conversation again.

He starts showing up at lunch breaks instead of sleeping all day, so one sunny afternoon, you organize a brown-bag picnic on the bluffs. Terezi’s the one who guides him up the path, whispering in his ear non-stop, but you made a point of inviting him personally, and he didn’t seem too upset about it.

You’ve noticed that he eats more if he can use his hands. Right now he’s chowing down on chunks of watermelon, joking and trying to spit seeds at Terezi blindfolded, while the light catches in his hair and turns it silver. Dirk catches you staring at his brother, but you can’t help it: you can finally admit to yourself how beautiful he is, lanky, long-fingered and graceful.

The scrape of the windmill overhead gives you an idea, and you spill it to Dirk, letting your running mouth work out the details. You’re probably not distracting him enough to keep him from figuring out why you’re blushing, but at least you’re distracting yourself.

You manage to tear your eyes away from the quarter-inch gap between Dave’s hand and Terezi’s long enough to ask the other Strider if he thinks your plan is feasible. Not only does he think it can be done, he wants to help; he’s as troubled by Dave’s detached demeanor as everyone else is. That’s fucking fantastic, because Dirk is the only person you’d trust to wire a transmitter without electrocuting himself.

That evening, it’s you who first recognizes the telltale tightness in Dave’s expression and makes sure that Roxy gets around to him before the pain’s so bad that he’ll stoop to approaching her himself. You don’t ask her to put in a good word for you, but she innocently drops your name anyway.

Two days later, he leans over and sniffs you suspiciously, asking, “Dude, have you been sitting in my chair?”

“Your chair? Which one’s your chair? Does it have your name on it?”

“The one in front of my computer, dog. My chair.”

“Ohhh. You mean the common room chair.”

“No, I mean the one I alchemized for my own personal use that conforms to the exact shape of my butt. Do you have any idea how long that takes?”

“Yeah, I know which one you’re talking about now… the common room chair.” The television blares “FINISH HIM!” and you spend a few seconds button-mashing before you continue in a deliberately casual tone. “Yeah, man, I was listening to some music the other day. Is that a problem?”

“Nah,” he decides, “I was just wondering.” The conversation lapses for a moment, but you mess around with the character select screen instead of starting a new round.

“So, uh, what were you listening to?”

You set down the controller, stretching. “The usual,” you tell him, meaning the stuff he writes for Jade; he’s got some good shit on there that he’s caught you nosing around in before. “I like the new one. It’s cool, the way it builds you really get a sense of how small a person is against the rest of the universe. But it doesn’t overcome her, you know, she holds her own. And it has an awesome bassline.”

“’Planets in Her Pockets,’” he says, sounding a little floored. “Uh, thanks.”

“Thanks for letting me listen.” You stand, touching his shoulder on your way past so he’ll know you’re leaving.

He catches your wrist, looking up at you, although his blindfolded face points about fifteen degrees west of yours. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m an asshole, okay?”

“Hey,” you reply evenly, even as your hunger sac does a somersault that would get a standing ovation from a panel of Trolympic judges. “Forget about it.”

When his birthday rolls around, you orchestrate a bash that turns into a debauched disaster complete with fireworks ( _Not in the hive, you slack-jawed cretins!_ ) and a beat nearly loud enough to drown out your second thoughts. Roxy, after consuming almost enough booze to make up for a year’s sobriety, stands in front of the television and issues a heartwarming speech about love and friendship that culminates in a very public proposition directed squarely at Terezi. Feeling put out, your moirail spends most of the evening trying to make a pass at Dirk, who’s too moody and distracted to rebuff him properly. Eventually, Jane intervenes, sending Gamzee up to the roof (to wait for Dirk, who she promises will be joining him any minute). As soon as he’s gone, she leads Dirk outside for some strife therapy and a heart-to-heart discussion of his feelings for her brother, who is presumably passed out somewhere in the vicinity of Roxy and Terezi and their, quote, “hawt lebsian makeouts” [ _sic_ ].

You look at Dave as silence descends in the common room amidst burst bottle rockets and the smoldering remains of your career as a party planner. He reaches for his cup and downs it in one gulp, then sinks down into the sofa like he wants to mold a new Dave from the imprint. The black cloth hangs from his neck; he doesn’t need it in the dark.

“Still there, Kar?” he asks with a hint of a slur.

“Yeah,” you say, still undecided about finishing your own drink. You don’t think it’s a good idea for _every_ competent adult in the house to be shitfaced, especially if Gamzee actually makes it to the roof instead of blacking out in his own block. Still, you haven’t actually convinced yourself to put the cup down.

“You know how Jade is pregnant and all,” he says.

“…Yeah,” you admit, swirling your drink, wondering if you’re about to find out how much worse this night could possibly get.

“And how it’s probably yours.”

Welp. There’s no harm in letting Kanaya be in charge in case of an emergency. She won’t let anyone try to burn the house down, which is apparently more than you can say for yourself. Tilting your head back, you mentally hand off command to the bereaved for the night, assuming she ever comes out of the nursery.

Dave says, “I want you to know that I’m not mad.” Embedded in the cushions, he addresses the television earnestly. You know he knows you’re not in front of him, but between his buzz and the overall weirdness of the night’s events, he probably forgot how normal people talk to each other.

“I think you like her a lot, and I know she loves you. You’re pretty good with John’s kids, and I think you’re going to be a good dad….” He stops in alarm as you inhale your last two ounces of screwdriver and start gargling like a drowning man. “Gonna be okay, there?”

“Wrong pipe,” you wheeze.

“You sure? If you’re going to need the Heimlich, I should probably get John,” he warns. “I’m pretty sure he has the First Aid achievement. Sticker. Thing.”

“No, please, just let me die in peace,” you moan. You coughed up orange juice all over your shirt and now you just really want to change and go to bed and not be having this talk anymore.

“It’s your corpse party,” he mutters. You start choking all over again. He doesn’t act like he said anything wrong, though, and you silently kick yourself for not taking the opportunity to change the subject to Terezi and why she has him tossing off Alternian vernacular in total candor.

“Anyway all I was trying to say is that it would be awesome if I didn’t get left out,” he spills in a rush.

“What’re you talking about?” you ask, still hoarse from your near-brush with death.

“The more I think about it, the more I don’t know what’s going to happen when she gets back. Like go back to the way it was before or what.”

“Dave,” you start wearily.

“I miss her so much,” he says, swinging his face in your direction. His eyes are open, but they’re back to normal, or normal for Dave: just an infinitesimal quiver.

He’s blind. Really, actually, entirely blind. He has to be, because otherwise he’d see the look on your face and shut the fuck up.

“What if she loses this one too? What if she has the baby and decides she doesn’t want to split herself three ways?” He takes a deep breath, and his voice shakes, and you think _I’m too wrecked to handle tears_ , and your biscuit, which can’t take much more punishment, tries to break for him. “What if I forget what she looks like? What if she can’t deal with....” He makes an ambiguous, defeated gesture.

“Hey,” you tell him, trapping his hand against the sofa cushions. “I miss her too.”

His chin drops to his chest, shoulders hunched and hair ruffling in a full-bodied sigh. You don’t want to see him like this. All the times you wished you could crack him open, you never thought about what the clockwork would actually look like.

_Tell him the truth. Tell him you’re never going to see her again either. Tell him she’s all his and the two of them can ride off into the sunset with their halfblood by-blow freak of a wiggler and never think of you again. Just another few days, and you’ll be out of their lives for good. Move your mouth and say it, fucking spit it out! It’s just two goddamn words!_

You almost make yourself do it. You get as far as the _I_ noise but when your lips close on the _m_ you think of the night his skinny ass broke the coffee table and what he said to you then, and you can’t stand the thought of him having an ounce of pity for you either. The rest of the sentence stalls in your mouth.

You don’t even want to punch his douchey angel-boned face anymore. All you feel is pain – his and yours, tangled and heavy, filling your throat with thick black despair.

Why is this so hard? Loving Jade was easy, but this is like trying to climb a waterfall, and you don’t even know how to swim.

The next morning you wake up alone on the couch with a parched, wooden tongue and the dim memory of telling him that everything’s gonna be okay.

You spend the next few afternoons on the roof, working with Dirk and Gamzee on your final project and trying not to think about Dave or Jade or any kind of feelings at all. Your moirail is trying to make life hard for everybody by shooting Dirk these wide, puppy-eyed looks that the human has no problem ignoring even without his shades, since his mind is somewhere else completely.

So is yours. Your lungs haven’t been clear in days, and you feel… _old_. If you can finish this one last thing, it doesn’t matter whether you ever get to kiss anyone again. Gamzee can take care of himself; the hive won’t disintegrate the instant you’re gone. Everything continues. Everything but you.

You can’t sleep, because when you lie down you’re drowning. Instead, you pace your block to the sound of your roommate’s even breaths, weighing the pros and cons of throwing out the buckets you’ve saved, the ones with Terezi’s genetic material and the single pail you shared with Dave. There’s no hope for your race, but Rose’s words tumble through your head all night long, and you can’t make yourself lay a hand on them. Your heart flutters like a broken wingbeast, weaker and more frantic with each passing hour. Eventually, the arrival of sunrise drives you back out into the world to face another day.

Dave wants to know what’s wrong. You can’t tell him.

He’s frustrated and so, so lost, so finally you take his hands and put them on your face.

“What do you feel,” you ask him, your voice gravelly from coughing.

Hesitantly, he smooths his thumbs across your cheekbones. He traces your eye with the tip of his forefinger, then lets his hands slide down to cover your mouth and chin. Your lips part, barely, and you resist the urge to kiss his fingers.

“I’m not sure,” he says finally.

You reposition his hands gently over your features and repeat the question, arranging your expression into a resentful frown.

“This is stupid,” he says.

“This is anger,” you tell him.

You smile, trying to make it as genuine as you can, feeling his fingertips move as your eyebrows arch and the skin at the corners of your eyes crinkles. His cool palms, resting on your cheeks, move apart as your mouth widens. You _know_ he can feel this. “This is happiness,” you say, then release it.

“This is surprise,” you tell him, letting your chin drop and your eyebrows go as high as they can.

Your expression turns solemn again. “Got it now?” you rasp softly.

“This is sadness,” he answers, pressing his fingertips into your eyelids.

Biscuit hammering in your throat, you take his birdlike wrists in your own clumsy, swollen hands and move them away. “Good,” you say. “Go practice on somebody else.”

“She’ll be home soon, Kar.” You shake your head, thankful he can’t see it. Jade won’t be back for over a month, if Aradia stays out as long as she did last year. You’ll be long gone by then.

That evening, you’re working on the rooftop when a shadow passes over your eyes. Your hand grows numb on the handle of the wrench, and it falls, and you follow it, swallowed by the dark. The noises coming from your moirail seem meaningless and distant.

Miraculously (and with a timely bloodletting), you’re granted one more sleepless night. You decide to spend it in the company of the one you love.

As you boot up Dave’s computer, you’re surprised to hear Jade’s voice greet you. He must have finally reprogrammed his operating system. Your biscuit hiccups in your chest; if he’s getting his shit together, maybe he’ll be okay after all.

She guides you through the login screen, where there’s an account waiting for you.

“Hi, Karkat!” she says brightly through the speakers.

You hook up a headset and answer her, choking back your wonderment. “Hey, Jade.”

She logs you in without asking for a password. “What are you looking for, Kar?”

Drumming your fingers on the mousepad, you consider your options. “Can we just talk for a little bit?”

“I don’t know how to do that.” She actually sounds apologetic. “How about this instead?”

The processor pulls up a sound clip at random.

_Tyger! Tyger! burning bright_  
_In the forests of the night,_  
_What immortal hand or eye_  
_Could frame thy fearful symmetry?_

_In what distant deeps or skies_  
_Burnt the fire of thine eyes?_  
_On what wings dare he aspire?_  
_What the hand dare seize the fire?_

_And what shoulder, & what art._  
_Could twist the sinews of thy heart?_  
_And when –_

“Stop! Stop! Stop,” you tell her, overcome and panting raggedly. “Can I just have some music instead?”

She puts on “Planets in Her Pockets,” and you feel the tension drain away as you close your eyes, basking in the fluorescent glare of the screen and the rhythm being piped into your hear ducts.

It ends too soon. “How about something different?” Her voice bubbles with liquid laughter.

The next song is dark, pounding and angry. Curious, you check the file path. It’s from an unlabeled folder nested inside the one with the rest of Jade’s music. You listen more carefully, feeling a growing sense of confusion as the unfamiliar melody clashes with everything you know about her.

Dave says something over the music that you can’t quite catch, his hand brushing yours as he plugs in his own headphones. “Don’t listen to this one – it’s not finished and it pretty much blows anyway,” he says, using the arrow keys to highlight another untitled track two lines down.

You watch him bending over the keyboard, his skin almost glowing, and you hold on tight to the arms of the computer chair and keep your mouth shut. All you can think about are the silhouette of his lips against the glow of the monitor and the racking cough threatening to carve its way out of your chest.

He carefully splays his hands across your face as it begins to play. His pupils, no longer responsive to light, are stuck half-open, irises glimmering like cherry Lifesavers as he stares intently through the bridge of your nose.

_clock the rate of the revolution, here’s the twist of its convolution_  
_not the problem, you’re the solution, dole it out without dilution_  
_blind to see clearer in the rearview mirror_  
_in my lane, in my veins, nearer than you appearer_

**THAT IS NOT HOW RHYMING WORKS, YOU…**

You….

_red hot sunspot long shot romance_  
_won’t know it works if we don’t take a chance_  
_let’s skip school and break the rules, rewrite the book on me and you_  
_two and two and two is three and that is how it oughta be…_

This one is worlds different. It throbs as insistently as the last one did, but it’s not angry, it’s _confident_ , and it’s overlaid with lyrics, a mindlessly easy flow that floods your eardrums with words you had given up on hearing, words that make it abundantly clear that all this layered effort is for you, about you, in you, it’s in you….

Your expression changes under his hands as he slides in, knees pressed alongside your hips, and reaches back to twist a knob. The music fades from your headphones, but you can still feel it, its adamant drumline gripping your heart, shivering through your bones. You rip off the headset as the chair tilts back under his weight and his hands return to weave behind your neck, thumbs laid across the corners of your jaw.

The thudding beat that rattles the windows in their frames and threatens to wake the dead and living alike takes the words “Get it?” from his lips and whisks them away unheard.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you make him your home to the pulse of the music pumping through your veins. You can feel it reverberating through his chin, through his cheekbone, through his teeth and hands and flowing seamlessly into you through every point of contact like electricity.

The song ends, but the rhythm doesn’t. It’s inside you. It’s your heart beating strong and steady and unconquerable for the first time in months.

“I can’t hate you, Kar,” he says, so close to you in the dark that his lips brush yours when he speaks. “Believe me, I tried. Every second felt like I was stabbing Jade in the back. I think she’d rather have it this way.”

“I can live with that,” you tell him.

* * *

The secrecy of your affair lasts less than a minute, as the overhead lights come to life, revealing that you’re making out in front of an audience of the house’s brightest and most in need of coffee. Roxy’s brash hooting tells you everything you need to know.

There’s only one thing to do. As Dave cracks up, you extract yourself from the chair and carry him bodily out of the room to the sound of John dissolving into helpless, uncontrollable giggles, leaning heavily on Dirk’s shoulder to keep himself from face-planting. Terezi smacks you on the butt as you pass her, and her gleeful cackle ushers you down the hall to Dave’s room, where you lower him onto the bed and lean over him. Your biscuit is aching with… everything. Too much everything.

“My fucking hero,” he chuckles, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. His touch sends goosebumps all the way up your arm.

You kiss the palm of his hand and slide your knee up along the side of his thigh. “Sounds like a lot of work,” you reply, controlling your voice as well as you can manage. “I think I’d rather be your slut.”

He laughs out loud and grabs you, making you squirm up against him. “Being my slut is way more work,” he says. Red-cheeked, you bury yourself in his mouth, impatient to surrender. It doesn’t matter whether you live or die, anymore, but as long as you’re still alive you will _live_.

“What about boyfriend, though,” he says.

The world stops. You open your bulbs and stare into his as he watches something out of sight, something he can’t lose track of or it’ll be gone.

“I never really asked Jade, but I wish I had, so now I’m asking you,” he continues. “The whole universe seems like it rides on every little thing we do, and there’s this voice in the back of my head that says I’m gonna break something if I screw up. So sometimes I let decisions get made for me – like with Jade. And because of that I’ve missed a lot of chances to tell her what she means to me. So when I say something like ‘I think I’m in love with you,’ you know that that’s a risk I’m willing to take.

“Kar,” he says. “I think I’m in love with you.”

You feel Jade’s hands on your face. Maybe it does matter whether you live or die, at least for tonight.

* * *

“What were they right about?” Your breath stirs his hair.

“Hmm?” he asks sleepily.

“Jade and Terezi, what were they right about?”

“Oh, that. Ha,” he huffs quietly, rolling over to face you. “They both have an unreasonably high opinion of your kissing prowess. Ludicrously high. Like, holy-shit-that-can’t-be-right high.”

“Like ‘I’d better verify this myself’ high?” Running your hand down his side, you pull him closer, winding your legs between his.

“Yeah, exactly,” he replies, grinning, and head-butts you gently. “Plus, Terezi’s been trying to get me to jump you forever.”

You sigh quietly. “Dave, what’s going on between you and her? For real?” You don’t think the answer would change anything, at this point, but you need to put the question to rest.

“Honestly?” he asks. Chewing on his lip, he picks his words with care.

“I think I’m her moirail,” he says slowly.

Suddenly, everything clicks. “Oh. Shit,” you respond idiotically. He punches you in the arm.

“I just meant – that’s a lot of responsibility –“

Raising his eyebrows, he shifts his weight on the bed.

“I’m so happy for you both,” you finish lamely.

“That’s better.” He leans in to nuzzle your neck, murmuring, “God, you smell good.”

“Really, that’s great,” you laugh, rearing away from his nibbling. “She needs somebody to look out for her, I mean, her kismesis could snap her like a twig! And now she doesn’t even have horns, she’s completely vulnerable –”

“Kar,” Dave murmurs. “Shut up.”

“Yeah, okay,” you say.

He yawns. “…Thanks for watering the trees, babe.”

Leaning into your breath, he leaves you with one last searing kiss before you drift off.

* * *

You love the way he emotes everything now, _everything_. It’s as though he thinks that no one else can see either; or, no, maybe it’s that now the mirror is just a cold hard flat thing and he can’t find a reason to care anymore.

You love the way he doesn’t just want you to tell him where to put his feet but leans all drunkenly up on you like he wants to occupy your center of gravity, like if he homesteads there long enough you’ll put his name on it.

You love that he never gets tired of how new you are, how responsive you are, and how much you enjoy being kissed. He hangs from your neck like a garland, and the winner is you.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you’re in love again – and you can’t fucking _wait_ to tell Jade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like 47 pages of DaveKat to tide you over until 4/13. The next update will be a new side story, starring Dave. Yes, that means there's still another 27 pages of DaveKat to go :)
> 
> Theme for Karkat (age 6): [Shout - Tears for Fears](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZEWwZNUafKo)
> 
> Theme for Karkat (age 8): [Clumsy - Fergie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tf_gPZSDIxI)

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr for Lift It Like It's Heavy news, commentary, and notifications: [blueraspberrybubblegum](http://blueraspberrybubblegum.tumblr.com)!  
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> I want to let you know how much I appreciate your feedback. I'm obviously new to fanfic writing so I'd love to hear about what you think works and what doesn't, and it'll help me write better chapters for you, so everyone benefits. I've put a lot of work into planning and writing LILIH and it's important to me to do the best I can.
> 
> You can leave your comments below or in my Ask box on tumblr. Thank you so much for your support!


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